


Perseverance

by sensitivebore



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M, Romance Novel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-06
Updated: 2013-01-22
Packaged: 2017-11-26 10:12:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 42
Words: 97,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sensitivebore/pseuds/sensitivebore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carson and Hughes, day by day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Petals

Carson glances at the bouquet of flowers on the hall table and halts in his purposeful stride. There is something off about it, something not quite -- there. Those small white daisies interspersed among the roses are all wrong, you never put wild, strong little blossoms like daisies in with the preening showy roses. He carefully extricates them and fluffs the arrangement, restoring its fullness. Little details matter. There's where real style and grace are, in the details that nine out of ten people won't notice, but the tenth will and envy such perfection. The offending flowers gathered in his hand, he finishes his patrol of the upstairs rooms and makes his way down to his office.

The day has been long, and irritating, and there is nothing he wants to do less than sit and stare at blurry columns in a ledger. He needs a break, they all need a break, but perhaps himself most of all. The last weeks and months had been nothing but a terrifying emotional ride, from the dread and horror of Elsie's health possibly failing, to the trembling collapse of exhilarated relief when she got a clean bill. Lady Edith's fiasco of a wedding to that classless bastard who left her there at the altar, humiliated, in front of the entire village. Her! His Edith, his monkey in the middle, the clever one who had decorated his office with her drawings of him as a stick figure in white tie and tails. Gods, and if that wasn't bad enough, the loss of Lady Sybil. The baby, the youngest, the one he could never look at without seeing her as a round-eyed four-year-old with brown ringlets. The one he had called little pudding and fancyface to make her giggle, the one who would regularly raid his coat pockets in hopes of a stray sweet. Dead, and she herself a mother for only a day. Gods. Sybil dead and in the ground and a baby upstairs who would never know her mother.  _Gods_.

Carson sits back and scrubs at his face roughly. Through all of it, Elsie had been there, holding him up, backing him up. There with a reassurance or an idea or just a hand to hold while they both cried over a ridiculous, needless loss. Even when she was afraid for herself, for her own life, even when she was staring at death she had been there. So what the hell was wrong between them now?

He stares at the little bundle of daises on his desk. What had happened to make her so utterly intolerant of his presence? He could say, do, not do anything right or to please her. If he disagrees with her, she gets angry. If he agrees with her, she grows exasperated. The most innocent of his remarks are turned into darts for her to fling back at his face with her sharp tongue and unreadable eyes. He had greeted her this morning as he passed her in the hall and she'd almost torn the head from his shoulders. Something about it would be a good morning when she could get on with her work and not before that. If he hadn't known better, he would almost testify that she had muttered a profanity beneath her breath as she stomped away. Worse yet, it was only him that suffered her wrath. He had put it down to still recovering from the awful fear of possibly having cancer until he realised that she is a ray of sunshine to everyone else. Even when she scolds the maids here and there, it is done with a bit of a smile to take the sting out of her words.

As he sits with his thoughts, he absentmindedly picks up the flowers and begins weaving them together. Carson can't work it out. He thought he had done everything right -- hadn't crowded her when she was having her tests done, had tried to be more flexible with his judgments because that's what she liked -- what was  _wrong_  with the damned woman? All his life he had heard not to ask when a woman was in this kind of temper, to let it wash over you like a squall, but he is getting frustrated and a little frightened.

What if the answer is simple? What if she has simply gone off him? What if she doesn't desire his company anymore, what if his old-fashioned, traditional ways and stern judgments have driven her away?

She is different now. Reading all sorts of modern literature, lecturing him about having an open mind. Spending more time with Mrs. Patmore and Anna and Mrs. Crawley. He hates himself for his next thought, berates himself for being so selfish, but his heart had squeezed with jealousy at her rapturous welcome of the recently-returned Mr. Bates. She had never been that happy to see  _him_. Not ever, even when he returned from London seasons. Granted, a London season wasn't a year in prison, but...  _still_. And she hadn't been down to have wine or tea with him in ages. He had high hopes when she leaned in his doorway after that unfortunate conversation with Mr. Barrow, but she quickly dashed them. A cutting remark, an eyeroll, a flounce. Carson had watched her walk away, resisting the urge to bolt after her, grab her. Push her into an alcove, block her in with his massive frame.

Then what? Would he have shouted at her? Tried to reason with her?

His fingers dexterously plait the pretty blooms into a slender wreath as he tries to puzzle it out.

Kissed her? Grabbed those curved, pretty hips in his hands and hauled her pelvis against his? Sure. That would have went over well in her current mood. Try any of that and he'd have been lucky to escape with his manhood intact. The woman wore scissors on her waist-sash, for god's sake.

Carson doesn't know what is going on with her, but he desperately wants it to stop. He'll do anything, say anything to have his confidante and companion and...  _whatever_... back. He wants to make her laugh again instead of sigh, wants her in his office making his tea for their nightly talks. Wants to watch her small, capable hands pouring and stirring and wordlessly preparing his cup exactly right, like she had been doing for years. Most pressingly, however, is the cricket match. The yearly game is always such a welcome relief for everyone, a reason to go outside, breathe in the fresh air, enjoy sport and company and relaxation. Elsie had sighed when he tentatively broached the subject with her, wanting to know if she were looking forward to it. She had shrugged a little, barely looking up from her novel and toast.  _Yes, I suppose, Mr. Carson. If nothing else, I can have a bit of a lie-in. Maybe catch up my reading_. He had wanted to snatch her novel away and plead with her then. _No, I want you there, I need you there, don't you see? His Lordship and Sir Matthew will have her Ladyship and Lady Mary -- the lads will have Ivy and Daisy and Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. O'Brien -- I need you there, watching and clapping and smiling while we act like foolish boys. I want you there not as the housekeeper but as a woman watching her man._  Had said none of it. Had only nodded, hid his disappointment, ate his breakfast in silence.

Rising from his chair with a sigh, he admits that no work is getting done tonight and so he may as well retire to bed. Holding the pretty little flower ring he has made, he locks his office and walks to the long table where they take their meals. He places it gently on the seat of her chair where she is sure to see it in the morning. The daisies will live, they are hardy and wild and strong, like her. Carson wishes he could take it to her now, there in her room where she is surely still up reading a few last pages of her book, her hair down and spilling over her back. Wishes he could weave the flowers through the ripples of silken locks as an apology - for what he doesn't know, he doesn't  _care_  at this point.

Every stem could be an I'm sorry, every leaf a tentative touch, every petal a promise.


	2. Push

She's been antagonizing him, she knows it. Overriding him in front of staff, the cheeky one-liners, mocking his more pompous moments. He's ready to strangle her with bare hands, she knows that too, but once she found out that she ( _and she alone_ ) could push, she can't stop pushing. No one else is allowed to question, tease, disagree, even fight with him. No one dares, for one. On the rare occasion that a footman or a maid speaks back, they are quickly silenced by his thundering commands and steely glares. But her? He would never. Perhaps it's because she sees through the bluster and thunder, and he knows it. Perhaps it's because his words never hurt her -- not too much -- because she can feel the uncertainty and fear that usually lurk below his slammed doors and authoritarian postures.

Perhaps it's because they are more than friends, and she knows it, and he knows it, and they are aware of it in the way one is aware of the weather -- always present, always shaping the paths of their lives, always shifting and peaking but remaining as predictable as the ebb and flow of the tide.

But now that she's better ( _not dying_ ), and that terrible fear is gone, and now that Lady Sybil is dead while still only a young girl ( _it hurt her, Sybil dying, hurt her so_ ), Elsie is born anew and her patience is thin with nonsense and her joy in life is boundless. And she's learned that now, more than ever, that she loves pushing him. Loves it. Loves the tension and the friction and the frisson. She thrills at disobeying him - as if she's ever obeyed any man in her life - and defies him constantly. She has tried to rein it in, warning herself that she shouldn't anger him too deeply; after all, she doesn't want to add stress to his life, only -- spice. Spark. That thrumming feeling left after you've been shocked by electricity.

So she pushes, and at night, when that exuberant tension has become almost painful inside her, she touches herself. Touches herself and thinks of him, and of new ways to push, to aggravate, to get under his skin and leave him with an itch that he can't quite reach and a need that he can't ( _won't_ ) name. Rocking gently against her fingers, she thinks of how much she loves fighting with him, how her thighs tense when he inhales sharply to snap back. The jut of his chin, the set of his shoulders, how his soft lips tighten to a granite line. She loves the way his huge hands clench into fists of exasperation, knowing he wants to grab her shoulders and shake her a little to make his point. She'll drag her hand up her body then, and caress her nipples through the thin white linen of her chemise. Her scent is heavy in the air and her mind is filled with images  _(pornographic, profane_ ), images of pushing. Pushing her slender, slippery fingers into his mouth to make him taste her; pushing him back onto his bed so she can mount him and push her wetness against the hardness beneath his trousers. Pushing.

She slides her hand between her thighs again and rocks, rocks, pushing, while thinking about her parting shot to him tonight. A laugh mingled with a moan dances on her lips when she thinks of it. One of the valets had pushed past her, obviously fresh from one of Charles' trademark verbal whippings. She didn't know why, she doesn't care why, but she saw her chance to push and reveled in it. Appearing in his doorway, she had smirked and opened the exchange with a casual volley. He had returned it with some philosophical meandering nonsense --  _do you ever wonder about the nature of people_  or some such. She captured his gaze and sneered a bit ( _not too much never too much never hurtful_ ) and sweetly pushed. _The poets should have come to you, Mr. Carson, really, saved themselves a lot of time._  Turned slowly, gave him one last significant look, walked away slowly, hips swaying and heels clicking. The beautiful friction between her legs increased and she lingered at the table, flipping through a newspaper, waiting for him to exit his office and begin his nightly check of the locks. She ( _and her pushing_ ) were rewarded moments later when he brushed past irritably and her gaze flicked down for a fraction of a second. There, there was what she needed, in the heavy bulge, the accidental-on-purpose touch of his arm to her hip as he passed her, the barely-heard inhale as he breathed in her lightly perfumed presence.

That's how the nights always end and this one is no different. She is touching herself, and she knows that ( _there, just there, on the other side of that wall, on the other side of that hateful locked door)_  in his bed, he is touching himself. Elsie knows ( _hopes prays_ ) that right now, this moment, he is roughly taking her in his own fantasy as his hand strokes and pulls. She's shaking all over now, just a little, as she increases the speed and pressure of her touch, and thinks of him there, hard and wanting her, needing her, filled with frustration and aggression. Her excitement grows and she becomes rough, sits up, slides to the edge of her bed. She is all aggression now herself, chemise discarded for the moment, toes pointed hard against the floor, her fingers moving desperately as her body cries out in protest. It's incomplete, it's not enough, it's a sham substitute for the mouth and hands and man on the other side of that wall but it's the best she can have right now and she must have something so she pushes. Thinks of him driving into her, his fingers digging into her hips, his speech a tangle of curses and words of love and worship. She pushes a little harder, a little more, and stifles her cry as she comes. Wanting more, she shoves her fingers in as deep as she can reach and twists, thrusting, riding her hand as the waves slam over her. Her orgasm leaves her shuddering and surely enough, as always, soft tears of frustration follow soon after.

_Gods, I need you, I need you, I need what you can give me, gods, please._

She knows he will. She doesn't doubt his desire for her, not anymore, doesn't doubt his devotion. Knows that he is a man of slow change and steadfast rules, knows that she must let him get there, must give him his time. Knows that there is no other and that the destination will make up for the slow, torturous journey a thousand times over.


	3. Pellucid

Yawning, she pulls on her dressing gown and winces, ruffles her fingers through the long tangles of her hair. She had fallen asleep before braiding it and would pay dearly this morning, but it can't be helped now. Elsie wonders if she should light the lamp. Can't be even four in the morning yet, but she is up and there is no use going back to sleep; nor does she want to get dressed yet, either, wants to enjoy the last few minutes of her warm full-length sleeping dress before stripping in the chilly dark and wrestling with her corset. She has a good mind to give the damned thing up -- after all, Lady Mary's fashion magazines announced the end of corsetry and all of its tortures, but Elsie reluctantly admits to herself that nubile twenty-somethings are going to have to blaze that path long before a head housekeeper can reap any benefit. She rubs sleepily at her eyes and decides against the lamp. A cup of tea is what she needs, and she likes stealing these few minutes before the house takes its first breath in the mornings. Likes sitting in the kitchen with her feet tucked under her, reading and sipping.  _Cup of tea._  That's exactly what she needs.

With keys in one hand and her book in the other, she quietly stumbles down the hall and steps to the kitchen, still yawning and swiping at her hair. It's cold, but not terribly so, especially when she's still so sleepy-warm and rested. Quietly, she puts her book and keys at her place on the table and vaguely contemplates the fact that she has been sitting in the same place for many, many years. First seat to the right of Carson. To the right. His right hand, you might say. She grins and shakes her head a little. Elsie had warned herself last night before falling asleep to be nicer to him today, not give him such a hard time, withdraw the rough side of her tongue for a bit. No matter how infuriating he can be, she doesn't want to hurt him or make him feel manipulated or emotionally trapped, so she needs to back off.

She shuffles back and forth between the table and the stove, preparing her little cup, all the while thinking of Carson and the strange --  _thing_  between them. While picking petty little fights and tossing off saucy replies to his questions is great fun, it is also horrifyingly frustrating. He's just so  _stupid_  sometimes. Elsie rolls her eyes and spoons tea leaves into her cup. Like yesterday, after the little tiff about the young people going to the film. She had deliberately waited until everyone began drifting away from the dinner table to their respective nightly plans before making her move. Had waited until the coast was clear enough to scamper around the table and insert herself between him and the doorway. Had taunted him about wasting chances and opportunities, had given him a meaningful glance, a tiny smile, wide eyes.

Elsie's spoon clinks as she stirs the tea morosely. All of that, and he had picked up exactly nothing. Gods, he was  _stupid_! Stupid, pompous, oblivious, self-righteous, blind, stubborn,  _infuriating_  jacka-- Her halfhearted mental cursing is interrupted when she pulls out her chair to sit. There is something in her seat, though it's hard to tell in the dim light exactly what it is. Picking it up gingerly, she examines it and is baffled at what she finds.

A delicate circlet of wildflowers that has been expertly braided and twisted together to form a little wreath, the kind Titania might wear in her hair some night while making love to Oberon. She turns the pretty thing over, careful not to disturb any of the stems or leaves. Where on earth had it come from? Her brow wrinkles and she moves closer to the light of the wall lamp. Examining the soft white petals and slender stems, Elsie bites her lip, thinking, trying to remember where she had seen these exact flowers. They are daisies, a particularly lovely variety, and she had just seen them somewhere. Her brows curve up as she suddenly remembers - the big hall centerpiece. She remembers because she had noticed them herself, thought they were out of place in the huge bowl of roses, getting lost beneath all of the fluff and pageantry. Had actually contemplated taking them out, but she had decided not to bring down that particular load of bricks on her own head. Carson is like a devil over the flowers being disturbed, declared that only his discerning eye would be cast over the arrangements to deem them suitable or not. Lord, she had pulled a few violets from a vase once, thinking to improve the shape of the bouquet, only to get a ten-minute lecture on the importance of uniformity and cohesion in indoor florals. She rolls her eyes again. Well, all the gods help whoever had dared to take these, because he'll notice. He'll notice immediately.

Her head snaps up and her mouth opens a little so a quiet breath can escape. He had noticed. Of course he had. She has known him long enough now to know that he had seen the problem with the flowers the moment he laid eyes on them. If, then, he had seen them, and removed the little blossoms, perhaps Carson had simply discarded them, only for them to be retrieved by someone. Perhaps Alfred, hoping to make an impression on young Ivy. She turns her head slowly and her gaze lingers on his office door. She tries to squash the tiny song whispering in her heart, tries to casually put aside the wreath and go about her little middle-of-the-night ritual. Elsie's fingers flutter over her keys and slowly gather them into her palm, all the while ignoring the messages her brain is sending.

_Leave it alone. Let it go. You do this over and over and you keep being disappointed. You are not nineteen anymore and neither is he, just stop. Drink your tea. Read another chapter. Do whatever you want to do, Els, just leave this alone and save yourself another little slap in the face, you stupid, sentimental old cow._

She picks the keys up, chews at the thumbnail of her other hand. Practices telling herself that she isn't going to be bothered about it, that she just wants her curiosity sated. She gathers her robe tighter around her body and slowly goes to his office door. She had been in his office alone before, of course, to borrow ink or check her books against his or to retrieve a certain ledger for his Lordship. This is different. This is  _snooping_ , and there is no two ways about it. This is snooping and sneaking and she has no right to be opening this door, no right to be turning up the gas lamp, no right to be bending and scanning his desktop for any telltale markers. She knows that, all of that. Still, the heart wants what it wants and love and hope and joy do not belong solely to the young and so here she is, hair falling over her cheeks, heart thumping a little faster than usual, fingers running lightly over the well-polished wood.

There's nothing. Her heart falls a little, despite the warnings she has shouted at herself, despite the determination to not care, despite the fact that she is too old for this type of nonsense. Her heart lurches and falls a little, because he didn't make it, the flower circlet is not for her, they  _are_  old and the time for such things  _has_  passed and she is pathetic and he would never waste time braiding a daisy garland when he could be polishing the silver or checking the locks or being superior about something. And now she's scrubbing tears away from her face, because there's no fool like an old fool and it's all been left to late and, bloody hell,  _who cares anyway?_

Not her. Not anymore. She's done with the stupid games and the tension and the bickering and --

A single petal is lying beneath his pen, a single soft white comma against the dark wood grain, and her fingertip reaches out to carefully grasp it, raise it slowly to her mouth, brush the velvet texture against her bottom lip. Later, in a few minutes, when she has locked his door and turned down the lamps and scurried back to her bed, she will carefully put his beautiful little token into one of her volumes of sonnets, press it closed and secure it with a tight white ribbon. Later, she will curl back into her bed and that tiny song will wind its way through her, brighten her eyes with tears and her cheeks with a faint pink glow and her lips will curve up as she hugs herself tightly under the blankets. Later, she will accept that she is a sentimental cow and she's getting soppy in the head and this must be some sort of second adolescence she's living and she will slip her fingers under her pillow to touch the book, reminding herself that it's real.

But for now, this minute, she just stands and stares at her fingertip, marveling at the fact that a stem can be a touch, a leaf can be a whisper, a single petal a promise.


	4. Prism

They have remained mutually silent about the wreathette, both his giving and her receiving. The sweetest gestures are like that, free from want of words and explanations and tiresome conversation. It is pressed forever in her sonnets, and her tiny, shy smiles are answered over the table with his softened gaze. That is enough for now. Neither of them are nineteen, neither of them are about to throw away decades of friendship and trust and reliability.

He knows immediately at breakfast that they are back on track, when her hand pulls his teacup close, fixes his tea the way he liked it, pushes it back to him with that little smile, that soft curling of her lips, the sleeping kitten smile that lifts the corners of her mouth. Carson thinks about how it would be to press his lips just there, to those tender little creases. To make her smile widen until her cheeks become round apples, to smooth his thumbs over all that softness. Says none of this.

She knows immediately at breakfast that they are synchronized again, when he takes the platter of toast from Daisy, picks off the extra crispy slices that she likes, puts jam on them, butter. Cuts them neatly and slides the plate over to her with the back of his hand. Elsie lets her gaze linger on his wrist for just a moment, notices the way his crisp cuff contrasts against the soft hair around the edges, the way his cuff-link glitters. Thinks about how capable those hands are, how large and strong, long-fingered and broad, thinks about how often she has wanted to tangle her fingers through his, scratch gently at the sensitive tips, touch the immaculate and softly shining nails. Does nothing.

He still does not understand her bad temper of yesterday and the days before, but what does it matter? What matters is that he is in a state of grace again, and she is making his tea and talking to him instead of reading her novel and ignoring his presence. All he understands is that he is jarred and shaken when she does not do these things, as if something has knocked the stream of time slightly off of course and everything is one step to the wrong side. Carson does not have any new insight or answer to his complicated, confused questions -- what are they? They are friends, certainly, the best of friends, but he knows that a man does not think of a woman's lips and eyes and cheeks when she is a friend. He thinks of a woman that way when she is a lover, and Elsie is not his lover. She is not even his lady. His secret heart wants her to be, very badly, but he is not used to listening to his secret heart, and the messages are mixed and make him anxious and unsure. He drinks his tea.

She has forgiven his recent bouts of pomposity, his paternal posturing, his slowness to grasp what is put in front of him. It doesn't matter, after all, because he is going nowhere and she is going nowhere and, no matter what happens, they will still be sitting here at this table in a month, a year, five years, ten. She will still be sugaring his tea and he will still be serving her first from the breakfast platters. There is emotion in those things, too, there is devotion and care and tenderness in the way he will actually correct the kitchen girls if she is not offered the bread first, before everyone else. There is a strange sweetness in the way he has taken to eliminating the middle-man altogether and simply gives her the best from the plate now before taking his own and passing it on. Elsie has no idea what he is feeling, besides relief that they aren't bickering. She doesn't know exactly what to make of the daisy wreathette ( _an acknowledgement, an apology, an invitation, what)._ A man does not give a woman flower tokens when they are merely friends, comrades-in-arms. A man takes the time to make a posy with his own hands when he is asking to be a woman's suitor, escort, her man. He is not her man. Her not-so-secret heart wants him to be, very badly, but she does not trust her not-so-secret heart, not when it is this new thing, hungry and demanding with sharp edges that ache. She eats her toast.

Everyone is discussing the upcoming cricket, and Carson is almost jovial on the topic. The men discuss positions and rules and wickets, whatever; the women discuss the plans for food, drink, dress. Anna mentions that they will need more starch since everyone will be in white, and the whites must be crisp and perfect. Alfred questions the tradition of the women wearing white; he doesn't quite get it. After all, they don't play, so he sees no reason for them to be restricted to the whites. Anna explains to him -- it is traditional for the women to wear white for their men, a way of showing support and spirit and cheer from the sidelines. Elsie muses aloud.

"I have to get to my white things out; it's been so long I've forgotten where I put them."

A dull heat suffuses her face as she hears her own words. Thankfully, the general din has restricted her comment to her end of the table and no one seems to notice anything amiss. She doesn't need to wear white, for she has no man in the game to cheer for. She had forgotten, for a moment, that she is just Mrs. Hughes, the housekeeper, the keeper of the keys, the matron in black. She is not one of the young ladies, or the Countess, or Mrs. Crawley. Her pale garments can stay stowed away, because she would simply be all dressed up with no one to claim. Elsie keeps her eyes fixed resolutely on her plate, waiting for the humiliated flush to leave her cheeks. He's watching her, she can feel it, but she's not sure why -- she doesn't even know if he heard her, and if he did, he'd not likely pick up the implication behind her words. She slowly chews her last piece of bread, wills him to look somewhere else, be distracted by someone else. He does, finally.

His heart hurts a little ( _in the best of ways_ ) when she mentions wearing white to the match. Everything will be different with her there, cheering on from the sidelines; he can pretend, even if it isn't the truth, that she is wearing the cool hues to stake her claim on her man. He will be able to look over and see her laughing, clapping, whispering with the other women. Can search out her eyes when he makes a particularly good play, feel her admiration beaming over him. She is stricken now, though, over her own words and he is once again at a loss as to what has upset her. He watches her head bow over her breakfast, her cheekbones slashed with deep red, wills her to look at him, to explain, to smile again. Should he have said something? Encouraged her? Questioned her? What? His fingers curl into a loose fist as he dully contemplates shattering his juice glass for want of anything else to do. Gods, if nothing else it would make her look at him. _The hell with this._

"I'm glad you're going to be on the sidelines, Mrs. Hughes." Stupid, banal words, but he doesn't rightfully care just now. He isn't going to leave her thinking that he isn't listening, isn't fully there, not this time.

She glances up and gives him the tiny curve of her lips again. "As am I, Mr. Carson. It'll be nice to --" She trails off.  _Nice to what? Nice to be out of the house? Nice to have recreation? Nice to see him sweating and shouting and exuding that heady mixture of aggressive masculinity and complete control?_  "-- nice to relax," she finishes lamely. "We've all earned a bit of that, I dare say."

This is better. Though it is still hard, and he doesn't understand, and she doesn't, they are talking instead of shouting or flouncing or slamming doors. They are both still terrified, but at least they're inching closer instead of turning heel and running, or masking their feelings in angry words. She is aware - and he is starting to be - that they need an outside force to act upon them. Both of them are from the tribe of God's Frozen People, and they are desperately beating their hands against their individual prisons of icy propriety, trying desperately to touch palms, to link fingers, to transfer heat between themselves. The ice is decades thick, however, and this slow melt needs a spark, an open flame, an engulfing wildfire to help them break free.

They both inhale sharply and sigh at the exact same time, two breaths against the same frost-covered glass.

She will wear her whites, and he will look for her there, and perhaps, finally, maybe, in the heat of the day and the sweat and the competition, the carefully-constructed ice palace they mechanically dance in will fall around their feet like so many bits of broken glass, and they'll breathe together for the first time, eyes no longer clouded by these uncertain mists, fingers no longer frozen into these painful formations. Hearts no longer clockwork but raw and red, alive and ready for the giving, and the taking, and the breaking.


	5. Pique

He leans against the wet bricks and lights another cigarette. The worst of the storm has passed, both outside and in, but he is shaking and unsure still. Just a few hours ago he was being shown the door with a boot to his ass, no reference, no nothing, and now somehow -- some bloody how -- he is going to be under-butler. Under-butler to Carson, no less, a man who thinks him foul and unnatural and twisted. None of this makes any bollocking sense, but he knows enough to shut his mouth and lie low when a tide suddenly reverses on itself and spits you back out onto shore rather than swallowing you whole. He isn't shocked by abrupt change anymore, his life is filled with it, but none of today makes any logical sense that he can see. Bates coming to his defense. Taking on Sarah, no less, which was no small favor -- Sarah is a slowly simmering cauldron of bitterness, always has been, and if you're unlucky enough for that pot to boil over in your face, you'll not likely get away unscathed. As he himself could currently attest to. So why would Bates put out his neck for him? He certainly owes Thomas no favors. Thomas blows out a stream of smoke, blue and foggy against the darkness of the courtyard. Makes  _no_  sense, none of it.

The back door thumps quietly and he stiffens. Sarah will be gunning for him now more than ever, he knows, and the best defense is always a ready one. Squinting, he can see a feminine silhouette outlined in the damp moonlight, hugging a shawl around her arms and shoulders for warmth. Not Sarah -- the bust and hip are fuller, the dress crisper. He arches his brows. Mrs. Hughes. Again.

She has been the most unexpected of the twists tonight, he thinks, second only to old Carson not having a heart attack and dying over it all. His lips twist in a resigned smile. He supposes it all is a bit much for someone as traditional and stuck in the past as Carson. But Mrs. Hughes -- she had understood. Bizarrely, unexpectedly, she had found him crying outside and had comforted him. Thomas had even tried to warn her away, telling her harshly that she'd be sickened by his story, shocked and disgusted. He flicks his cigarette butt into the grass and watches her cross the courtyard to where he is leaning against the storehouse. He has to hand it to the lady, she had barely blinked when he had confessed the whole sordid mess to her, had only patted his hair with a dry towel and philosophically shrugged.  _That's mostly life,_  she had said.  _An endless muddled conversation with two people hearing completely different words._  He could have sworn her tone was just slightly tearful, in that angry, fighting back a few tears way that women had, but hadn't questioned it. Her business is her business, and he is grateful that someone is talking to him without shifting their eyes away nervously or making sure there's a chair's width of space between them. He lights another cigarette and nods at her.

"Mr. Barrow, haven't you had enough of the damp for today?" Her round, tumbling Scottish accent makes him smile a little. It was  _so_  Scottish, almost like someone pantomiming what a Scotswoman should sound like. She'll never disappear into good Anglican conformity, that's for sure.

Thomas shakes his head. "Need some air now more than ever, Mrs. Hughes. I've a lot to... think about."

Elsie leans against the wall, as well, gently budges him down a bit. She doesn't know what to make of today any more than he does. It all seems so stupid, so unnecessary, no needlessly ugly. They have all been aware of what Mr. Barrow is, down to a one, both upstairs and down. What is this sudden rash of nonsense about it? As for why she had spoken up for Thomas, it is blindingly obvious to her -- if one of them is allowed to sink at the behest of the others, like a lobster in an over-full pot, then the entire downstairs will collapse on itself. Ambition and petty squabbles and pointless dislike will eat at them until they are snapping for each others' necks. So far as she can see, no harm had been done, and she isn't going to see the ruination of some young man's life because he had a night of desire, of poor judgment, of misunderstanding.

She has her own nights of desire, of poor judgment, of misunderstanding. So many of them. The only difference between herself and Thomas is that she has never dared, never has the courage or the stupidity or the youthful bravado to go into Carson's room at night, pull back the blanket, press her mouth to his. This does not mean she doesn't think about it, sit up nights considering it, gather her keys and stand with hand on doorknob and heart thudding dully. She does all of those. She would do more if she was not frozen in this endless loop with Carson of push and pull, not knowing when or if to exert more force, bound as she is to her manners and propriety and quiet cold heart. So while she cannot pretend to understand Thomas' longings for those of his own sex, or how he came to be such a way, she understands desire, and confusion, and hearing one thing only to be told it was another. She does. Elsie sighs and tilts her head back, letting the light misty rain pepper her face.

Thomas and Mrs. Hughes stand there, side-by-side, not speaking but also not uncomfortable. He smokes and she feels the rain and they both think about their stupid, sick, hopeless loves that cause as much pain as pleasure, if not more, and say nothing. Thomas grinds his heel against the ground, pulls out his cigarettes, looks at them. Shrugs. Lights another. He won't sleep tonight, he's sure, and he doesn't want to be anywhere near the servant's hall for quite some time. He'll gladly bunk down out here for all he cares, as long as he doesn't have to walk that hall, see the disgust and rancor on Jimmy's face. He isn't sure what's going to happen, where he'll sleep now, what his new duties will be. He only knows that for right now, he'd rather be exactly where he is, in the dark and the wet and chill with this quiet woman next to him, this mechanical matron who has surprised him with soft hands and soft words.

Elsie rolls her head on her neck, looks over at him. He has been the topic of conversation all night and she is tired of thinking about his situation. It will all get sorted, she's sure, now that she has unstrung Carson's noose about it and put some distance between Thomas and the boy. Sure it will be, because that's  _all_ the conversation had been about. Carson had invited her to his pantry, poured drinks, pulled her chair close to his. She had felt so happy for a brief moment at just that little gesture, that little sign of closeness, only to slowly realise it was to ensure they wouldn't be overheard. To ensure he could rumble in a low, furtive voice that wouldn't carry into the hall. Elsie had sat, wine glass in hand, for a moment of disbelief -- after the spats, the daisies, all of that, here they went again. Something  _else_  to argue about. Something  _else_  to bicker over. She had braced her heels on the floor and shoved the chair back, angrily relishing the scraping sound it made against the perfectly polished floors. Hadn't wanted to be that close to him, not if the topic if conversation was just the house. The house and all of its stupid, endless worries.

She sighs sharply and eyes the cigarette Thomas is smoking. It looks so relaxing in some ways. Sarah smokes, as well, and is constantly criticized about it; Carson hates it, finds it appalling that a lady's maid should do something as vulgar as smoke. Elsie squints a bit, resentfully. He is always making his bloody judgments. Not a day goes by that they don't all have to hear exactly what Charles Carson thinks is proper and isn't, what is vulgar and isn't, what is acceptable and isn't. To be honest, she's a bit sick of it. Mostly because she knows he just makes it up as he goes along. What's  _proper_  for Carson is what Carson is comfortable with, what he can deal with, what he can fit into his narrow newsprint world of black and white.

It's why, in the end, she can never bring herself to make that step. Can never slip to his room at night, can never kiss him gently behind her parlour door, can never lean her head onto his shoulder as they go over the books. She can never take them anywhere because he's so determined to be in control of every waking moment. She cannot risk giving what he might reject, because even though she understands him ( _a little_ ) and knows ( _some of_ ) the reasons behind his actions, it would burn her too deeply to be rejected. To be found improper, or vulgar, or wanting. She cares for him, so much really, but this state of nothingness chafes her, pushes at her. She has so little life left to waste after almost losing it all, and she wants something to just happen. Whatever it is, she can deal with, she just wants things to change. Even a little. A look, or a touch, or even just a bloody word.

Elsie holds her hand out to Thomas, who is lost in his own thoughts. He arches a brow in question.

"Spare a cigarette, Mr. Barrow?"

"But you don't smoke, Mrs. Hughes."

"I might take it up, who can tell?"

He shrugs, pulls a cigarette out, tamps it on his wrist. Places it to her lips, shields the lighter from the breeze. She inhales gingerly, pulling smoke into her mouth, which she immediately lets escape. Her face screws up a bit, and he smiles.

"Awful?"

Elsie wrinkles her nose and nods. "How on earth do you and Mrs. O'Brien do this all day? It's like inhaling burnt toast." She tentatively drags from the cigarette again, being careful to pull lightly this time, and again letting the smoke escape her open mouth. She's confused. After years of watching them gratefully suck cigarettes like mother's milk, she can't see what the fuss is. It doesn't feel like anything, and it tastes rather terrible. She looks questioningly at Thomas, who understands the unspoken question.

"Not like that. Pull in hard, down to your lungs, don't let it all spill out your lips -- right, now hold it -- now let go." He watches her, amused despite his dark mood. She's old enough to be his mum, but it's clear this is a new thing for her and he finds that funny, endearing. Wishes halfheartedly that she did smoke, she would be a nicer chum than Sarah.

She follows his directions and then exhales, coughing just a bit. Suddenly, she understands what all the fuss is about. Elsie feels lighter from head to toe and her head suddenly clears a bit, pushes aside the damp gray thoughts. She doesn't think she could make it a habit or even a vice, but she gets it. Elsie is like that, though, understanding things comes easily to her. Nothing is so complicated as people like to make it, if only they listen and watch and try to figure things out. Instead, they all run about like chickens with no heads, lamenting to bring the roof down, having dramatic fits over nothing. She inhales again, lets the smoke flow through her gently this time. Glances at Thomas and laughs a little, as he does, watching her sneak her first fag like a form-school girl instead of a middle-aged woman not shy of her 55th year.

"Mr. Barrow -- I'm glad you'll be staying on." Her words roll and tumble, tumble and roll, all lift and fall and lilt. "You've worked hard for many years. You deserve to stay, to get ahead." Drops her head to exhale the smoke, which is fast becoming enjoyable. A mean little part of her also delights in how angry Carson would be, how outraged, to see the housekeeper of Downton smoking like a common tart in the courtyard with the homosexual footman. How  _vulgar_  it all was, how  _unacceptable_.

Thomas jerks his head up in acknowledgement. "Mrs. Hughes -- you didn't have to help me. I know that." He stops, unsure as to how he should continue. He is not a man used to giving thanks or showing gratitude. He is a man who has little acquaintanceship with either, because kindness rarely comes his way. He shrugs laconically. "I know you didn't have to, and you did, and, well... I'll not make you regret it." It's all he can say. It's all he knows to offer her in return for her unlikely championing of him, her surprising gift of compassion. He is hurting, still, over Jimmy's reaction and Alfred's disgust and Carson's revulsion ( _those things hurt, no matter how used to them he is, they hurt anew each time_ ) but she has soothed some of that. Balmed the cuts, as a mother might tend to the wounded knee of a small boy.

She smiles a bit, says nothing, smokes her first cigarette down to the filter in order to hide the light sheen of tears in her eyes. No, she didn't have to help him, she supposes. There is no law. No law except the one in her heart that demands she take in every broken bird, every damaged egg, every wind-tossed fledgling. Only the law inside her that says she is forever to be a collector of broken things, of things mismatched, of things discarded, of things not the right size or color or shape. Of nights too late and mornings too early, of shameful confessions and grief-stricken secrets. Pregnant girls and motherless boys and abandoned brides and homosexual lads. And him, of course. Her golden prize, her fair-day goose, her angry unbending doll. Elsie doesn't know where he is tonight, maybe already in bed reading or going over ledgers in his pantry. Doesn't particularly care right now. She can't deal him at just this moment, can't deal with another round of push-pull. She has shoved her stupid book of sonnets on the highest shelf, stowing away his damn pressed posy, because she's too old to lie in her bed trying to figure out what it all means. She doesn't want to think, for a change.

Just wants to stand here next to her newest orphan and smoke a borrowed cigarette, quiet in the rain and the mist and the dark.


	6. Psalm

He looks up at the sound of the back door latching. The footsteps that follow are light, quiet. She has returned then, from her courtyard tete-a-tete with Mr. Barrow. Carson's jaw sets angrily as he thinks about it. She has preferred being out there, in the rain, at this time of night, with an inverted footman to sitting by the warm fire of his office with a glass of wine and respectful conversation. There are only so many wounds his pride can take, and this one is particularly stinging. He had looked forward to her all day, to closeness and laughter and the lovely fresh smell of her. And not just for his own gratification - he had looked forward to taking care of her, pouring her wine, listening to her concerns, offering his solidarity. But no, she had to give that warmth and closeness and loveliness to a man who couldn't even appreciate it. A man without honor, without manhood. He doesn't wish ill upon Mr. Barrow for his unfortunate life, but Carson finds it all a bit disgustingly ironic at the moment. He gazes down at his ledgers, not really seeing them. Jumps a bit when her familiar light tap -- just a musical drumming of her nails, really -- sounds against his door.

Elsie doesn't particularly want to talk to him tonight, if she's honest. She's tired from all of the upset of the day, and her own bed and a cup of tea and a few chapters of Doyle seem like heaven at the moment. She sighs. She isn't going to bed without bidding him goodnight, she never does. Can't fathom him thinking she has forgotten about him, that's the thing. People do. He is so large, and ever-present, and authoritative, that he is like a piece of the masonry to most of them. Always there, always standing. She has seen people talk about him in his own presence because they simply took him for granted. She'll never do that, not on her life, no matter how angry or disappointed she is with him. He'll know that he matters to her, this night and every other. Elsie takes a deep breath as his door opens, tries to cast away the shadows from her face. He worries about her all the time.

Carson looks down at her, framed in the doorway. Her soft heather shawl is damp with tiny drops of rain scattered across it, winding their way over her shoulders and clinging to loose strands of her hair. He feels a surge of anger. Out in the rain and the damp and the night air, and here she is just well again. He has never quite got it through his brain that she had never been actually sick, only badly frightened and tired, so now he fusses and frets about her health almost obsessively. Why? Why couldn't she just have stayed with him, instead of leaving her wine undrunk and the fire with no extra body to warm?

Neither of them have spoken; they seem caught in a fragile web that prevents speech as they simply look at one another. He searches her face methodically, checking for any sign of fever or pallor or sweat. She stares back resolutely, trying to force his gaze to lock with her own. Heat radiates from his big frame, the smell of starched linen and clean hands. She realises with a faint bitterness how attractive he is to her, always, even when he hurts her, even when he is inconsiderate and judgmental, even when he closes off his heart out of fear and uncertainty. She supposes that is a good thing in the grand scheme of it all... precious few babies would be born if people ceased finding each other attractive when the waters were rough. Elsie closes her eyes briefly, then opens them with a small, sleepy smile.

"Just saying goodnight, Mr. Carson, it's been a tiring day."

He's caught off-guard, he has still been searching for the right words to say. She's saying goodnight and he doesn't want her to go, not yet, even though he can see she's practically asleep on her feet. A petulant, childish voice inside says _it's not fair, I've hardly seen you, why did you have to go out there with him?_  He is irritated with his own juvenile feelings and lack of eloquence, irritated that she always reduces him to this somehow. His feelings for her, that is - the woman herself never reduces him, he thinks, just the fact that he doesn't know how to feel about her, or toward her, or with her.

There is something caught in her hair, some piece of organic debris snagged in the soft brown mass, and he reaches up automatically to pull it loose.

She flinches away from his hand slightly and he apologizes, gestures.

"You've got something -- your hair -- a leaf, I think." His hand hovers beside her face, palm only millimeters away from her smooth cheek.

Elsie flails a bit at the back of her head, trying to find it by touch, making a sharp, exasperated sound. "Will you, Mr. Carson? Please? I can't seem to." Trails off, forgets to finish her sentence. Her eyes are still fixed on his face with that slightly challenging expression, that obstinate stare. Not breaking their eye contact, she inclines her head just a touch so her face is resting against his open hand. When the solid heat of his hand meets her cool cheek, her eyes do close, finally, and she rests there. She's not sure if the tobacco rush is wearing off, or if she's just tired of not being touched, but she doesn't move. Tells herself that she can stay like this for just a moment, just a few seconds, while he removes the offending leaf. It's not improper, or vulgar, or forward. It'll be the briefest of touches, but it will soothe her jagged edges, calm her jangled nerves. She feels oddly on the verge of tears. If only he'll offer her something without shaming himself for it, or her, or them. If only he'll give an inch.

His mouth opens just a bit as she nestles against his fingers, as her heavy eyelids slide down, shuttering her light blue eyes from him. The softness against the sensitive tips of his fingers is lush, lovely, and Carson stands frozen. He shouldn't be touching her like this, they shouldn't be this close. Anyone could walk through, pass by, peer at them. He wills his other hand to move, to make with the job at hand and stop all of this before it goes too far. Shakes slightly, uses his free digits to tug at the leaf, watches it float soundlessly to the floor. There, it's done, there's no reason for him to gently brush her hair, to stare transfixed as his fingertips slide effortlessly into the silken web, brush past the cold metal pins. He is cradling her head now between his big hands and his fingers flex against her scalp, a few pins pull loose, giving him access to probe deeper, separate the strands, and he is not just holding now but he is fondling her hair, sensually, sexually, tugging lightly at it. A low sigh rushes from his chest and he cannot help this impropriety, this breaking of the rules, because his senses are preoccupied with feeling and smelling and seeing. And she has not moved. If anything, she has parted her lips, rolled her head slightly, turned her face more fully toward his palm.

Elsie takes the moment for herself, refuses to think ahead, puts all thoughts of discovery or regret from her mind. All she knows at this minute is the smooth hand cupping her face, the fingers plunged deeply into her hair, the erotic pressure of those fingers pulling and sliding and working against her head and neck. She says nothing, keeps her eyes closed. Asks for nothing more than this very second with this man, in this hallway. This body, these hands, this love. He is taking a chance, for once, he is showing her that she is not alone in the sharp breaths, the quickened blood. He is loving her in the only way he can let himself and her heart is filled, overflowing, burning with it.

"Damn Barrow, why can't he keep his disgusting habits to himself?"

Her eyes snap open, she startles away from him, cringes back from his hands. She's not sure who has caught them, or what is going on, but he is angry now. Elsie's confusion registers slowly and she rights herself, pushes at her hairpins, yanks her body away from his. Searches the corridors and stairs around them with her eyes. There is nothing. No one.

The smell of smoke in her hair is what undoes him. He had leaned to inhale her light, clean smell and instead the acrid scent of tobacco has snapped his senses awake. With them, his resentment and fear comes flooding back and he is angry now, angry with her, angry with Barrow, angry with himself. He continues loudly, almost shouting. "How dare he smoke around you? If he has to indulge in such vulgar habits, surely he can refrain while in the presence of a lady? Surely he didn't have to expose you to such filthy --"

She is walking away from him, head down, the tender white nape of her neck bent and exposed. Walking away with a sad slump to her shoulders and a heaviness to her step that is rare, and he could deal with her anger but this resigned hurt tears at his chest and he calls her back, his voice ripping hoarsely. She pauses for a moment by the stairs and looks at him, and laughs quietly. A horrible, mirthless laugh filled with knowing and bitterness. A laugh that cuts him down deep, digs, twists, wounds.

"You couldn't just leave it lie, could you, Mr. Carson? You couldn't just _leave_ it. If it were any business of yours, which it isn't, I smoked the cigarette." Her gaze brushes over him listlessly. "I'll say goodnight now, Mr. Carson."

She climbs the staircase and doesn't look behind her.

He stands in the doorway for long minutes, willing her to turn and come back. To turn around and let him make it right somehow. To come back, listen to him. To let him touch her beautiful hair again, hold her face between his hands for another moment. Tears of rage rush up and he scrubs a hand across his eyes. Why did it always go wrong? Why didn't he ever get this right, when by all definition it should be the easiest thing in the world? She is soft, and welcoming, and willing, and he feels something for her that he has never felt. He does not know what love is, has never pretended to, but he suspects that if it exists, she has wrung every drop, every atom of it from his body and collected it for her own. Stores it in the hollow locket between her breasts like a maiden's keepsake. All of it, he knows, is hers now -- his patience, his trust, his confidence, his commitment. And now he has hurt her one more time.

He is sorry, sorrier than he can say, sorrier than any words or flowers or poems could express. He is almost sick with it, nauseous, trembling, flushed, afraid of what the morning will bring. He is always afraid after times like this that she will turn her shoulder to him, erect those impenetrable glass walls, seal him off from her sunlight. He's hurt her and gods, he is sorry, so sorry.

Then again, he always is.


	7. Pallor

She has woken with a headache this morning, a dull throbbing behind gritty eyes, her throat sore. She curses the clock, rolls over, shoves her braid out of her face. That gesture brings the night before seeping back into her thoughts and her stomach turns. He had been a complete jackass,  _again_ , and she had went to bed with a dull feeling of hopelessness, wondering why on earth she kept subjecting herself to this ridiculous farce of -- she didn't even know what to call it, not even to herself. She can't very well say relationship, because it isn't. Can't call it friendship, because it blurred over that boundary a long time ago. Elsie casts about, looking for a term, a definition, anything that will let her put this scattered mess into a mental box. _Nothing_.

Sighing, she swings her legs out, shoves back her rucked blankets. She sits on the edge of the bed, holds her face between her hands, and even that small movement sends her hurtling back to last night. He had touched her, truly touched her for the first time, cradling her face between those hands. Luxuriating in her hair as best he could with it still pinned up, cupping her cheek. Her knees had almost buckled under that touch, and she had been happy ( _so pitifully happy_ ) for just that much. Of course, it couldn't last. Of course he had to go and ruin it, just as he ruins any step between them with his inability to stop controlling every moment of every day. She closes her eyes. It's getting tiresome, and old, and not worth it. She has gone this long without a man in her life, and she is starting to think she can finish her life up without one quite neatly. She is lonely sometimes, yes, and the nights are long and sometimes sad. But that is familiar, like a dull and dusty cloak, and seems almost preferable to this lurching ground they try to stand on together.

Her throat tears a bit when she tries to clear it, and her mouth has a rather vile taste. Elsie smiles ruefully. Her  _vulgar_  cigarette with Mr. Barrow last night has come back to haunt her. Still, she is glad she did it. It gave her a chance to let the boy know he was in her thoughts, a chance to have a living body next to him that wasn't judging him. What was it that Carson had called him?  _Foul_. Her lips thin. For someone who has a past less than sterling, Carson is certainly quick to drop the lash on those different from himself. It's what she can't stand about him, the one thing that is always the deal-breaker. She can accept the traditional ways, the old-fashioned thinking, the strict adherence to rule and regulation. What she can't accept is his self-appointed role of judge, jury, and executioner, his self-awarded fiefdom of morality and ethics. Gods, he'll probably make the cricket match into some uptight, duty-bound chore.

 _The cricket match_. She groans and covers her face. If there is anything she doesn't want to do today, it's stand outside and cheer on a bunch of men that she doesn't even particularly  _like_ at this very moment. She wonders briefly if she can get away with claiming a headache, or urgent errand in town, or -- she groans again. Halfheartedly curses the fact that she can no longer plead female trouble to get out of particularly distasteful chores. She shouldn't go, she should let him look for her only to find her not there. He should have consequences for his behaviors for bloody once; for once, he should be made to understand that she wouldn't always be there, faithfully, cheerfully, after he had been rude or hurtful or critical to her. She tries to harden her heart against him, against them.

All she can do is get up and face the day, regardless of what Carson does or doesn't do. Elsie rises, makes her bed. Has a wash and does her hair. She hesitates to dress, stalls for time by arranging and rearranging her hairpins. There are white blouses and skirts in her dresser, far in the back, and a part of her still longs to wear them for the cricket match. Still yearns for him to see her on the sidelines making her quiet claim on him, dressed in white like the ladies upstairs. She bites her lip, thinking. If she is to put her foot down, to make a stand, she has to stop thinking this way, has to stop wondering how he will feel about this and that. That line of thinking is what allows him to act as he does. Her concern for  _his_  feelings and his thoughts and his comfort. Still, she reasons, it was to be a warm day, surely, and she doesn't fancy the thought of standing in the sun in one of her black dresses. Compromises with a dark skirt and cream blouse.

 _There_ , she thinks resentfully.  _He can't fault me for it but neither can he think it meant for him especially._  Elsie is aware that such thoughts are juvenile, mulish, but that can't be helped at the moment. She sighs and checks her reflection in the glass one last time, then makes her way downstairs to the kitchen.

She can hear the bustle and clatter of breakfast getting underway and speeds her steps, hopes to arrive to the table before most of the gentlemen, Mr. Bates in particular. Always hates to have him stand for her entrance, always tries to slip in unnoticed so he doesn't have to struggle to his feet. She is relieved to see that most of the men are preoccupied with their food already, so she hurriedly pulls out her chair and waves them down before they can stand.

"No, no, Mr. Bates, Mr. Barrow, please."

Carson has risen, of course, but she gives him no such pass. After a long moment, he sits back down and everyone resumes passing the platters and chattering about plans for the day. Elsie wishes she could simply ignore him, but they sit only inches apart. She greets him, finally, after smiling and speaking with everyone else. Refuses to meet his eyes, keeps her body collected on the far side of her chair.

"Looking forward to the cricket, Mr. Carson?" Her voice is flat and colorless, and she hates the sound, tries to force some light and shade into it. He is watching her carefully, closely, and she avoids his searching gaze by looking at everything except him. Stares at the jam pot, the teacups, the eggs. Busies herself with bread, with butter.  _Just leave me alone,_  she urges him silently. _Just leave me alone this morning, give me some air, let me breathe. For once, just let it lie._  She doesn't want to be distant, certainly doesn't want to be cruel, but her life cannot revolve around buffering his feelings and overlooking his mistakes. He certainly doesn't let anyone else slide, and he has to learn that his rules apply to him, as well.

He answers between measured sips of tea. "Of course, Mrs. Hughes. Always an honor to defend Downton." She hates hearing the tentative, melancholy note in his rolling baritone, but she sticks fast. If she makes this easy on him, they will continue in this awful circle that leaves them both reduced and strained, and neither can afford such destructive indulgence. She nods vacantly in his general direction, then bolts the rest of her breakfast and leaves the table. Reels off orders to the chambermaids, inspects the storerooms, takes notes on what is needed. Exchanges idle words with Mrs. Patmore and Anna as she passes them in the halls. The morning goes by, a blur of sheets and blankets and laundry and flower arrangements and grocery orders, and before she knows it the staff is setting up the pavilions, laying the outdoor tables. She had seen Carson in the courtyard with the men, dressed in crisp cricket whites, and Elsie had rushed in the other direction. Can't deal with seeing him in the soft sweater, sleeves pulled up to expose his forearms, without wanting to nestle close to him, brush her face against that plush fabric. She can't do this.

Has to. Has to help the other women serve the food and drink, has to be there to make sure the maids don't get carried away flirting with the lads. She slips out to check the place settings, to make sure the outdoor furniture is sparkling clean, attractively arranged. Some of the pale green napkins are ruffled and displaced by the breeze; she replaces them with an expert hand, spaces the chairs more evenly. Gratefully becomes caught up in the little details that a housekeeper lives for, buying herself some time to settle her mind, calm her nerves.

"Don't go. Just stay, just a minute -- it's not quite time yet. Just stay one moment,  _please_."

Elsie slowly straightens and closes her eyes briefly before turning.  _He can't just leave it. He never can._  "No time for lingering, Mr. Carson, still plenty to do before the match." Curves her mouth in a mechanical, meaningless smile. She doesn't want this. Doesn't want him standing there, bags under his eyes, that note of desperation in his throat. She wants him to learn, yes, to understand that he has to have more respect for other people, has to allow other people to be human much in the same way that he was. She wants all of that, but the shadows in his eyes are eating at her heart, acidic, boring through her. Elsie bites her lip, hard, and shoves away her traitorous feelings. Her small ministrations finished, she turns and brushes past him with another empty-eyed smile.

He grasps her arm, up high, fingers wrapping around her and holding her there. "Please... I'm asking you to wait just one moment." His voice shakes slightly, his fingers are careful not to squeeze or pinch her. She stares steadfastly at his sweater, so close to her face; concentrates on the individual threads, counts them. He is saying please, and he is holding her gently by the arm, and they are so close together. It would be so easy to just give in. Tilt her head back, look him in the eye, hear him out. She shakes her head and her voice cracks a little, comes out in a painful whisper.

"Not now. I don't want to talk right now." He starts to interrupt and she squeezes her eyes closed, pulls roughly away from his staying hand, manages to find her voice again. "I said not _now_. Leave it lie, Mr. Carson. Just -- leave it." She starts to walk away but her steps are slow, dragging. She can hear his harsh breathing behind her, and knows he is barely restraining himself from following her and grabbing her. No one walks away from him, or ignores him, that is the thing. Elsie wants to feel triumphant, smug, but there is only a hollow, horrible feeling in her stomach and chest.

She turns and looks at him, wraps her arms around herself.  _Gods damn it_. "Between innings, Mr. Carson. Find me between innings, if you must." She turns away again, with strength this time, leaves him there on the grass with his beautiful whites and penitent, pleading eyes. It is, for now, the best and the worst she can do.


	8. Penance

Lifting his arm, he scrubs the sweat from his forehead, watches the next batsman up.  _Branson_. He sighs. Carson has to admit the boy has tried, but his batting still isn't the best. No matter; Barrow will make up for it on his turns. Barrow can play a mean game of cricket, regardless of whatever else he gets up to. The game has went well; he has enjoyed the sheer exertion of it, playing aggressively, almost violently at times to keep his mind occupied. To give himself as few opportunities to stare across the field as possible. She's still there, he knows; he's caught sight of her multiple times moving between tables, mixing drinks, directing waiters. Had almost missed catching the ball at one point as he watched her, sun-flushed and pretty, kneeling next to one of the village children. Could see her, even from that distance, drying the girl's tears and smoothing over whatever small controversy had caused the upset.

He glances up from his crouched position to see the players dispersing toward the tables, toward the generously arrayed food and drink, and realizes that the inning has been called.  _Find me between innings, if you must,_  she had said, and now there are too many people, too many men trying to talk to him, and he can't find her among the women. Rakes his gaze over Daisy, Ivy, Mrs. Patmore,  _nothing_. Looks over where the guests and family are taking their leisure, and there is only Anna with trays of lemonade and cold wines. Gods, where has she got to? There's only a thirty-minute break between the innings, and he has so much to say to her.  _I'm sorry,_  he thinks desperately.  _I'm sorry, where are you?_

"I think we stand fairly well at the moment, don't you, Carson?"

Carson nods an automatic and polite reply to whoever is speaking to him, doesn't scream at the man in frustration to leave him alone, to sod off, to get away from him. He's spotted her, walking across the lawn, weaving through excited throngs of children, making her graceful way toward the house. And now his Lordship is speaking to him, clapping him on the back, wanting to discuss strategy for the second innings. Carson retains his beautifully neutral expression, gives away nothing of the ragged nerve endings screaming under his skin, speaks respectfully. _Twenty minutes before next inning._

"Milord, we're expecting a supply delivery today; if you'll excuse me, I'll just make sure it's been signed for and stored properly." Bites the inside of his mouth while he waits for Grantham to stop rambling about the game and give him his leave to go. He withdraws politely and sets off across the field and lawn at a rapid pace, just short of running.  _Please, for the love of god, no more interruptions -- I don't ask for much, so give me this._  Reciting silent prayers to be left in peace until he can find her, he makes his way into the courtyard, through the back door, just misses running full-steam into a maid with a full tray of summer tarts. Explodes at her.

"Will you watch where you're going, girl? I don't particularly want to play cricket  _covered in fruit and jam!_ " The maid stares at him, round-eyed with terror, curtsies, stays frozen for fear of doing the wrong thing. He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose. Before he can speak, however, he's interrupted by an unmistakable voice.

"Then perhaps you ought to watch where you're going, Mr. Carson. If it were me, you'd be wearing every last tart on that tray right now, make no mistake about that." Elsie gives him a cool once over and then nods to the petrified maid. "Go on, Grace, take those out to the tables. You're fine, lass."

She is there, slightly in the shadows of the staircase, and her posture and expression make his insides crawl with guilt and shame. Far from being angry, with sparking blue eyes and red cheeks, she looks resigned, passive, beaten,  _I'm a very good woman, so come on and hurt me_. He has dogged her steps all day, biting at the bit until he can be alone with her and make this right, and now he has no words. He wants to say he's sorry, that he didn't mean it, that he's always cocking it all up and he knows that. Wants to tell her that hurting her makes him feel more shame than even the merciless lights of the stage did, that being shut out from her friendship and her affection make him feel like he is  _on_  stage again, bathed in the cold and menacing light in front of a hostile audience. She has made no move, said nothing; she is simply standing there, waiting.

"Mrs. Hughes, I -- you see, that is, you should know --" Carson looks at her and he is almost beseeching, silently begging her to end this as she always does, with a smile, a laugh, a roll of her eyes. He doesn't know how to do this because he never has to. She always makes it right between them, sets them back on course. She is not helping him now, however, and he is lost and adrift, and painfully conscious that time is running out. They will be looking for him shortly to start the second innings, and  _she is not helping him_. He looks desperately at the clock.  _Fifteen minutes._  A quarter of an hour, and he has said, done nothing to make this right; he cannot remember a time when he has been this uncomfortable, cannot remember a time when he has felt alien inside his own body this way.

Perhaps she has decided to grant a modicum of mercy, or perhaps she is tired of standing, but she reaches over to his office door, turns the knob, shoves the door open. He almost gasps with relief at the thought of being behind a closed oak door, out of that terrible public space with his humiliation, and he follows her inside. She shuts them in and leans against the edge of his desk, without speaking, without a flicker of change in her pretty features, without throwing him the rescue line that he has grabbed so many times in their past. Elsie simply leans there, looking at him, and he badly wants to touch her again, touch her the way he had last night even though it had been improper and against the ( _his_ ) rules and would lead to nothing but the worst kinds of trouble. She is curved and soft and lovely in her silk blouse and taffeta skirt, there are small curls escaping her heavy bun and wisping around her face, and he is overcome with the ridiculous urge to tell her that instead of apologizing. To tell her that he thinks of her, all the time, except when he drives her from his mind with work or sleep. Carson has no idea how she would react to such declarations - with laughter? Anger? Offense? Pity? She had let him touch her yesterday, yes, but she had been obscenely tired, wrung out from mothering, cold and wet. He suspects she will not lean her face gratefully into his palm today, or let him slide his fingers through her hair in that undulating, pornographic manner that had caused this firestorm of confusion inside him. He knows that confusion is the wrong word; he is not confused so much as terrified as the control he has loved for so long begins slipping out of his fingers. This  _whatever_  has shaken him to his inflexible core and, for the first time in his life, he does not know what to do, where to go, how to proceed. His protocol and rules and standards are useless here, there is no script to follow, and she still has not spoken. There are five minutes, perhaps seven, before the men will be actively looking for him to continue the game.

"If I could only -- if perhaps you could --" Again and again, he tries, fails. Mostly he does not know what he wants to say, or how to say it, does not know how to say he is useless without her, is unsure what words would explain how cold the days are when she does not smile at him, is lost as to how to express she is now essential to him and when she locks him out he is incomplete, lacking, found greatly wanting. Somewhere along the line she has not so much taken his heart as  _become_  it, but how does he go about saying something like that? How does anyone? It is all irrational, crazy, not enough. _Three minutes._

Carson is overcome, again, by her quiet beauty, and its clean, natural, healthy contrast to the powdered and perfumed excess of the upstairs. Her face is lined and her mouth is naked and her hands are strong and small and clean with short, glossy nails. Tells himself that this is not an apology, this is not what he meant to do at all, but there are only _two minutes_  and if nothing else he can tell her she is beautiful. He reaches forward, lifts one of her hands between his own, draws it to his body. She is watchful now, alert, a small line knitting her brow, unsure of him. He should ask, say something, but he turns her hand over, presses his thumbs into the palm, massages the soft skin there. Rubs her fingertips gently and then he is ( _going too far_ ) lifting her hand to his mouth, pressing it to his lips, stroking it over his face, threading his fingers between her own to spread them open. He hears her harsh inspiration of shock and he knows he should stop but he has gone this far already and there is ( _one minute_ ) one thing left that he must do; he draws her fingertips into his mouth and suckles them briefly. Relishes her hard gasp of expiration and turns her hand palm up, presses several rough kisses into that loving cup, closes her fist tight around them. He releases her and turns away, opening the door, exits quietly, leaves her there to collect herself.

He leaves the house, steps back out into the sun and the sweat and the din of children playing and guests talking. It was not an apology, he knows that, he's not foolish enough to be that romantic, but it was what he had inside him, what he carries with him every day that they walk next to one another. She may be angry with him still, angrier even at his daring, but he does not think so. He thinks, would might even be willing to bet, that she understands, at least a little. Understands that apologies and regrets and remorse are not always best expressed with trite phrases and cheap words. Understands that a proud man can rediscover sacred humility in a single worshipful act.


	9. Praise

"Mrs. Hughes, what -- is there --"

She shushes him with a tiny shake of her head, closes his bedroom door behind her. There is a high, wild look to her, her eyes shining in the dim light. She is still dressed in her blouse and skirt from the day, her hair is still neatly arranged. Carson isn't sure what she's doing here in his room, what on earth she's thinking unlocking his door at this time of night and slipping soundlessly in, but he fears that his actions from earlier will now haunt him. They had avoided each other for the remainder of the day, careful not even to exchange looks, and he has no more idea how she is feeling now than he did then. She had not even appeared at dinner, sending Anna along with a message that she was taking a working meal and would dine in her parlour alone. Carson had to sit through the three courses, force himself to discuss the match with the boys and Mr. Bates, smile at little Daisy when she filled his cup or took his plate away.

He knows, speaking strictly for himself, that today has changed them and is quite irreversible; he knows that he should regret his forward actions, his imposition on her, the shift in their long-established friendship. Carson knows he should feel all of those things, and he has tried - has tried to forget the feeling of her hand as he guided it along his jawline, the soft swells and dips of her palms, the secret inner-spaces between her fingers. Has tried to forget most of all the dizzying taste of her in his mouth, the low sound when he drew her fingertips between his lips, lavished them briefly with his tongue. He knows this, all of this, is the road to pain and disaster and consequences that neither of them want or are prepared to handle, but she had tasted of fruit and honey from the summer tarts and something singularly her, something darker, hypnotic, frightening.

She is standing with her back against the door, watching him, and he cannot read her face. Fear buds inside him and takes root, and begins its sinuous growth through and around his heart. If they were all right, she would have spoken by now. If she was not offended, she would not be here, would not be taking this risk.

Carson wonders for a moment if she has been drinking. Her eyes are so bright, her cheeks so flushed - even her lips are pinker than usual, as if her blood is pumping through her body double-time, leaving its rouged footprint behind as a sign. He begins to rise from his bed, cautiously pushing back his blankets, moving slowly, deliberately, the way one does so as to not spook a fawn.

She says nothing, turns her head away, watches him from the corner of her eye. He tries to speak again, keeps his voice soft, calm. At this point he almost fears that she will bolt if he moves or speaks too quickly or loudly; he can feel the nerves thrumming from her, can almost feel the tension shot through her body like live wires. Carson's heart is pounding now, he is terrified that his actions earlier have somehow damaged her, upset her to the point of hysteria.

"Is everything -- are you --"

She gives him another frantic small shake of her head, silencing him again, speaks for the first time since her arrival in his bedroom. Her voice is a choked whisper, filled with emotion that he can't place, almost as if she's holding back screams or grief-stricken sobs.

"Please don't, don't talk."

He holds his hands up slowly, as if to say  _it's all right, look, I'm no danger to you._  He is moving now, closing the gap between their bodies, but he makes sure to stop an arm's length away from her. Gives her plenty of room to move, to breathe, to turn and flee if she feels the need to. Carson is cursing himself for putting her in this state, whatever this state is, and he is searching desperately for something to do, say, some comfort to give her that will calm her breathing, relax her taut limbs, still the almost imperceptible shake. Gods, he swears he will leave her alone, stay as far away as possible from now on, put whatever distance between them he can, but he cannot repent the taste of her.

She lifts her hand and reaches out to him and he closes his eyes briefly. Whatever slap or curse she has in store, whatever curled rake of claws, he will accept as his due and make no sound, will not begrudge her whatever act of violence she needs to retake her virtue and her control over her own body. She speaks and the whisper has turned into a ragged, demanding plea and he jerks, hisses slightly, as her fingers make contact with his lips.

"Again. Don't talk, please, Mr. Carson, just -- again."

 _No,_  his conscience shouts at him,  _no, leave her be, send her back to her room, carry her there if you have to. This is trouble, this is dangerous, there is no going back from here._

He captures her hand between his own and breathes against her skin, harshly, hotly. Explores her wrist, rubs the pad of his thumb over the staccato of her pulse, cherishes that hard, rapid beating of wings beneath the thin skin there.

 _Only this,_  he thinks, immovable, refusing to be denied. _Only this and never again, to not would hurt her just as badly, I don't ask for anything, not ever, only this._

Does not allow himself to think of anything else, anything more, than each movement, each change in pressure and texture. He traces the lines of her palm, follows them with his tongue, and her breath is coming now in whispered sobs, her head lolling on her neck, turning slowly back and forth against the wood grain of the door. Her fingers and hand are passive in his but she keeps her eyes open, watching him, commanding him, refusing to let him stop. His grip tightens and he bites gently at her pulse, feels the beat of her precious life-blood; he roughly forces her fingers to spread, licks at the tender spaces between, drags teeth and tongue and lips over the length of her fingers. He is high now himself, wild, restrained only by his wish to not frighten or harm her, knows he must stop and stop soon before this all goes farther than either of them intend or can deal with. Hopes that she has more control than he does, that she will pull away soon, leave this room, because his own resistance is slipping with each taste of her, with each hard breath she feathers over him.

She is pushing now, pushing her fingers into his mouth, all passivity gone as she tenderly explores the wet warmth and he is all but crushing her wrist in his hands as she pushes and he draws on her, sucking, milking her taste and she shudders then, an entire body spasm that jars her and her free hand wraps itself in his shirt, clutching, for a long hard moment of tension and stretch and arch and then it is over. Elsie gently pulls her fingers from his lips, withdraws her hands, takes a deep, shaking breath. Puts her hands over her face.

He closes his eyes against the grief of her withdrawal; there is an emptiness in him now that is shocking, breathtaking, like cold water on a winter's morning. Hollowness echoes through him when she takes her hands away, when they are disconnected again, and this has all gone too far, they've done too much, _everything is changing._  His body is hard and wanting and his mind is a hurricane of thought; how will they face each other in the morning, how will they run this house together after this, how will they not do this again, _how will they manage to keep doing it?_ He wants to touch her, pull her to him, hold her against his body, tell her that this is all right, they are all right. He opens his eyes, reaches out, brushes his fingers along her face. Doesn't speak because he knows now that she does not want that. She does not want the confusion of words that so often stumble and hurt. He does not blame her.

She lifts her shaking hand to his, connects them at the palm, fingertip to fingertip. Makes a small, soothing, circular motion. Interlaces her fingers with his for a just a moment. Their hands -- hands that know nothing but work, service, attention, polish, setting things to right -- love each other, slide together, strain to meld and become one another. Carson has touched so many female hands in his life; helping women from carriages, up flights of stairs, down from high steps. Hands that were lotioned, powdered, painted, pampered, and never had he given them a second thought; but he is now captured, willing slave to small, practical palms and unvarnished nails and the smell of her soap.

She is the one to pull away, quietly leave, lock the door behind her. He is left with his thoughts of this -- this holy thing, this earthy worship, this heady Communion.


	10. Property

_Ungrateful, careless children, all of them._

She pushes her sleeves up again, bends over the water ring on the table, pushes and presses the tallow into the wood. One of them had left a water glass, a rocks glass, something sitting on this priceless table, and now it is her job to repair the damage. But that's what she's for, isn't it? Repairing things, secretly, silently. Dabs more wax onto the stain, polishes it in with steady, circular motions, forces the water out of the wood fiber, replaces it with the thick, hot drops of melted fat. She will fix it; Carson had luckily discovered the glass before it had sat too long and truly ruined the table.

Elsie flushes. He had sent one of the footmen to fetch her instead of himself, and she is grateful. Can't face him yet, can't face what ( _she_ ) they had done last night, pressed there against his bedroom door. After leaving him, almost running back to her room, she had thought sleep would never come -- but it did. Had fallen almost immediately into a dark, dreamless place without stirring until morning, had awoken still in her clothes from the day before. She had expected to be sore, exhausted, a wreck, but instead she had woken feeling refreshed and invigorated, at least physically.

Emotionally and mentally, well. Those are different, aren't they?

She scrubs at the table and fights back panic. Wonders if he was shocked by her actions, repulsed by her wanton display of desire?  _He thinks I'm vulgar, whorish, I'm sure_. All she knows is that she couldn't stay alone in her room for one more minute, staring at her keys, replaying that moment in his office over and over in her mind. Feeling the ghost of his mouth on her fingers. He had reached for her, finally, and it had broken her open; left her there leaning on his desk, thighs pressed together, pulse pounding, oxygen coming and going in hitches. She had seen, finally, need and want in his eyes, had finally seen him acknowledge his own imperfections, his own downfalls, his own frail humanity and that - as much as what he did with her hand, his mouth, her fingers -- had left her wet and wanting.

Elsie stands, straightens her back, twists to relieve the stretched muscles. They can't avoid each other indefinitely, she knows; she's missed two meals already in an effort to keep her distance, to sort her head, but the girls are already questioning her, wondering, and she knows the footmen are no less nosy. She tries to concentrate on her tasks, but it's not really necessary anymore -- she's been the head housemaid and then housekeeper at Downton for far too long to need concentration. Her work is automatic, flawless, beaten into her muscles and movements from days, months, years of rotation and practice. She should be grateful for small favors, she supposes; she and Carson could perform their duties asleep, practically have before. At least they can go about their respective days with the knowledge they aren't cocking up everything.

Just  _them_. Just everything  _else_.

She is not young or stupid enough to think this is a good idea. How many times has she counseled chambermaids, footmen, stable boys against this type of stupidity? How many times has she reiterated, over and over, that service was not a profession for the easily swayed, the romantic at heart? Countless, that's how many. Countless times she's tried to quench the warmth between men and women, men and men, women and women downstairs, knowing that down that path was nothing but heartbreak and ruined careers?

And now her. And him. And this. Elsie bites her lip, slowly runs the cloth over the table in a fixed, mechanical manner. A small voice inside her tries to speak up, make its case.

_But we're older, we're old, almost. Surely we have earned -- surely we know enough to be discreet, to be subtle. My blood stopped last year -- neither of us are at the mercy of young bodies._

Her eyes close. What was last night if not incredibly foolish, insanely stupid almost? Going into the men's quarter, unlocking his bedroom door! Not even knocking, announcing herself, simply entering as if it were her right. Anyone could have seen her, anyone might have. She can't even be sure now that she wasn't observed, you could never be sure in a house with this many shadows, this many corners and alcoves and cracks and keyholes. Yet for all of her self-recrimination and panic over the foolishness of her actions, she doesn't regret it. Doesn't regret a moment of that pressured, agonizing time spent against his door as he made torturous love to her hand, her wrist; can't feel shame over how she had dominated him, plunging, dipping, touching the sharpness of his teeth, the hot wetness of tongue and cheek. Can't feel wrong for the way it had made her come, leaning there, tremors darting through her hips and pelvis and legs. Had almost slid to the floor in a boneless sprawl if not for her hand twisted into his clothing, his too tight grip on her wrist. The bones there are bruised today, tender; she keeps her sleeve carefully down when in the presence of others.

There is a sound and she looks up and there he is, watching her as he places the newspapers for the day near the fireplace. They have been neatly rolled into fire-starters, ready for burning.

 _Like me,_  she thinks wildly.  _Ready for the burning._

A hysterical laugh rises in her throat and she fights it back, trying to get herself under control. He is watching her from across the vast room, silently, and she can't read him -- unlike most, she usually can. She usually can tell what's behind the impressive mask of perfect dignity and grace, but right now she is too unsure of him, of them, to hazard a guess. She knows what she fears and she knows what she hopes ( _maybe, a little_ ) but she doesn't know what's poised there, ready to spring. He's like that and always has been; just when she has him pinned down and figured out and neatly stowed away, he will lash out or draw away or ( _sometimes, rarely but sometimes, sometimes_ ) draw her close. She stands there, staring like a fool, wringing her polishing cloth between her hands. Gone is her usual swift assurance, her ability to move from room to room soundlessly, a swath of black in the corner of the eye.

Everything is changing, even them, and if she's honest she doesn't know what to do right now. It baffles her, not knowing what to do, what to say, how to react, because she always, always has those things in order. Even when she is frightened, she sees the path ahead of her and takes it unfailingly and without doubt. And now him, and this. She looks down at the table and stupidly, insanely, goes back to polishing out the water mark. For lack of knowing. For lack of anything.

He has crossed the room to her side now, she can feel his presence, and she scrubs harder, almost frantically, at the wood. Wills him to do something, to break the silence, to get it over with. Whatever he has to say, whatever condemnation or regret or excuses he needs to make, she wants him to get on with it. Elsie doesn't think she can stand making some sort of formal small talk, greeting him, talking about the table she's currently cleaning. Doesn't think she can bear such vacuousness, not right now.

Carson's hand is at her waist and he is brooding over her, towering, and she fixes her eyes on the flaw she is fixing, continues her rubbing, watching the wood drink up the wax. His fingers curve around her and Elsie does not look up. Her nerves are calamitous now, clanging and sending bolts of adrenaline through her body, and so she pushes and rubs and polishes the table, waiting for him to move. His hand, his body, something. Waiting for him to direct her, for once, because she's come to realise she can't do this thing alone, regardless of what they do or where they take it, he has to help her sometimes. It's just too hard the other way, it's too destroying to always put herself, her heart, her dignity on the line, never knowing what his response will be.

"I -- will you --" He is trying to speak and she remains silent, letting him fumble for words. His hand is clumsy on her body, pulling at the fabric of her dress with compulsive little motions. She wipes the table, dips the cloth in wax, repeats her motions.

"If you will -- we -- come to me," he breathes in one harsh whisper. "Tonight, again, will you?" Feels his fingers tighten on her waist, slide down over the swell of her hip, squeezing, groping. Elsie is not young, nor romantic, and she knows all of this is leading to the worst sorts of repercussions, but she finds herself nodding, a short jerk of her head, an agreement whispered down her front as she works, still.

"When I can. Yes." This is enough, this is too much, they are in the grand room, the main room, any of the family or staff could find them here like this. Too close, too guilty, too high strung for anything innocent or domestic. He nods, clears his throat loudly, turns and walks away. Her hands slowly stop moving across the table and she sags against it for a moment, collecting her thoughts, donning her armor again. It is new and not entirely welcome, this feeling of nakedness with him, this feeling of being stripped, and she knows he has to be feeling at least some of this -- him, surely, the great showpiece, the ultimate fixture, the grand object d'art. That knowledge settles her a little, gives her back some of her usual power, and she tilts her head back, breathes deeply.

It's all wrong, and surely stupid, but she will go to him tonight, again. She does not try to lie to herself, or be coy about her intentions -- if he will have her, she will lie with him, take him as a woman takes a man. Peel away the armor of officiousness and propriety and control from his body. Let her own drop crashing at her feet. She will risk it, being found out, being labeled a tramp, being dismissed even, mostly because they run this house, she and him, and if anyone can move beneath its line of sight they can. And because the ice houses they live in are cracking finally, after too many long nights and lonely days, after too many averted touches and sideways glances.

She'll risk it mostly because she wants to own something finally, something solely hers -- the big house will never be hers, or the gowns, or the jewels, or the immaculate grounds they stand on. None of it can be stamped and filed as her very own; she has borne no children, built no home, tended no crops. If she is anything, she is still the farmer's daughter at heart, and she knows that to be anything, one must possess a bit of land. A hearth, a deed, a parcel, a plot.

So yes, she will go to him tonight, and if he is willing, she will lie with him. He will never be her husband, father no child for her, they will die as they have lived, as the butler and housekeeper of Downton Abbey. But tonight, she will unlock that door, and make him her territory, her acreage, her claim.


	11. Purgatory

_There is no honor in this,_  he tells himself. There is no honor in her slipping through the house after everyone is asleep, sneaking, covert, watchful. No honor and she is an honorable woman, a woman who has worked her entire life to build a veil of respectability and authority around herself. He should, at the very least, take her somewhere, to another village, another town, to London ( _not London, never London_ ) so they could get lost in the madding crowds. They have time off, sometimes, during the downtime.

It cannot wait until another holiday comes around, he knows this. This is all pointless pontification on his part because he has asked her to come to him, to slip to his bedroom under the cover of dark tonight. He has already compromised her, after all, what's a little more? At the very least, he should have gone to her, should have risked discovery himself, but his ruthless practicality knows that his presence on the women's floor would be far more likely to cause alarm, far more noticeable, than her swift and fleeting steps through the men's side. She can always claim linens, locks, something; there is never an excuse for him to be on her side after a certain hour. He grimaces. Can't even extend her that gentlemanly favor, that courtly effort.

Carson is sitting at his writing desk, slumped down in his chair, still in his trousers and shirt, though the neck is unbuttoned, the tie gone, the stiffly starched collar and vest and coat discarded. He has turned the gaslight low, dim, so that the room is a close place of blurred edges and soft shadows.

What are they doing? Why now? Have they lost all sense of reason? If they are discovered, found out, ever, it is dismissal for them both and ruin for her ( _seducing a butler, they'd say, dismantling an entire house to scratch her itch_ ) and the collapse of the beautifully built palace of cards they have built over the years, side by side. There is no future in this, he's nothing to offer her except dishonor and downfall and humiliation.

He waits for her, still.

If he could put this down to human nature and its baser urges, perhaps it wouldn't be so upsetting, so confusing. He is a man, after all, and she is a woman and neither of them are dead and in their graves yet. There were women in his youth, a few; drunken, loose women that could be had for a drink and a dance after the shows, women whose names he could never remember a week or two later. Since coming to Downton, there has been the occasional whore in London during the season; hurt, battered women that he is always gentle with, doesn't look in the eye, barely speaks to, pays double. Not out of shame for the whoring ( _though there is that, oh yes_ ), but because it is her face he sees when he closes his eyes. It is her body he imagines rocking beneath him when he is on top of them, and that to him is a betrayal, even to these poor, lost girls. Not that they'd care, not in a million years, he knows this - it's business, it's a way to get by, it's a horrible transaction between two desperate people.  _Still_ , he thinks.  _Still_. It is the worst type of use, the falsest of shams.

It's why he can never lay eyes on Ethel again, never have her in the house. It cut too close, seeing what she had been reduced to. Knowing that she was used by men like himself, men who wanted what they couldn't have, men who would substitute her for something clean and whole and good. He's a hypocrite, of  _course_  he is; he's known that for decades. But so is everyone.

Except her.

 _No, she isn't_ , he admits. Even when her hand is forced into tasks she hates, like dismissing Ethel, she goes about making it as right as she can. She has helped that girl, fed her, stolen food from the kitchen. Carried letters, set up meetings to discuss the child. Gambling everything of herself, getting nothing in return. He has forgotten how to do that. All he knows now is the perfectly turned cuff, the precisely laid table, the properly poured drink.

And her. He can't tell when exactly it all came to this rushing, churning peak; when it all transformed from hidden thoughts and accidental brushes into something alive and starving. Thinks perhaps it all happened when they found out she wasn't sick, wasn't dying, wasn't going to leave him to haunt these halls cold and alone. She awoke from that scared stupor seizing at life with both hands and he has followed in her furious wake, watching her laugh and cry and eat and drink and comfort and rage. Watched her spilling out this new warmth from places only previously filled with cold light. He's been afraid of losing her, if he's honest with himself. Afraid that he bores her now, irritates her, chafes her newly-reborn skin with his dusty, archaic ways.

But she came to him, still, last night. He closes his eyes and drops his head, lost in the thoughts, reliving the moment for the thousandth time today. She had come to him, barely coherent from her wanting; demanding, pushing, instructing him and gods, he had been so eager to give. So grateful to have her taste on his tongue again, so drugged with her restrained sounds and convulsive movements as he touched, rubbed, traced every inch of her hand and wrist. Hadn't tried to take liberties, hadn't asked for more than she had expressly given him. Hadn't needed to. And he will do the same tonight. He has done nothing to prepare his room, bought no flowers, lit no candles. That would be empty, meaningless, to both of them. They do not need the trappings of teenagers and newlyweds. What he can give her, will give her, is complete control over this; he will demand nothing, accept everything, give her only what she explicitly asks for. It isn't much, because anything she gives will be enough for him, he thinks ( _mostly he thinks this, mostly_ ). It can be her safety net for the risk she takes, the knowledge that it can stop, only go as far as she wishes. ( _He believes this, and it is mostly true; though there is a dark part of his mind that wants and wants and wants and it will never be enough_.)

There is another reason he will let her lead this, more practical, less courtly -- he is unsure of himself, and his abilities, and of how to touch her, to please her. His hands turn overly large, clumsy, unrefined when they are on her; he is rushed and rough and awkward. For all of his skill and grace in a dining room, a ballroom, he has never tried to learn the art ( _if there is one_ ) of physical love, of lovemaking, of mating. Has never needed it, never thought to need it, and so when she is so close to him, so warm and soft, he is all hot desire and uncontrolled movement. He is, suffice to say, out of his element and in need of her guidance. He doesn't know how much she knows, what she knows ( _wants her to know nothing_ ), but he is sure that she has been with men before, a man at least. She has loved a man, he knows, and she is not a delicate, fragile thing afraid of trying -- she would have lain with him, yes, there on her father's farm, perhaps. In a rich stack of clean hay, a turned field, a spreading of soft clover. His chest constricts, cannot bear to think of it, cannot think of anything else.

He shifts restlessly in his chair. Has tried to read, to write in his diary, to do anything, but it all proved to be a futile exercise. Outside his door everything is quiet, the footmen have retired to their rooms and will be dead to the waking world before long; he works them hard all day and there are rare reasons for them to rise during the night. She will wait, he knows, until all is similarly quiet on her side of the dividing door, until the maids are no longer giggling and trading secrets in their rooms, doing up braids for one another, pressing last-minute aprons for the morning, taking care of whatever personal rituals they each had at night. His thoughts wander and he realizes that they are spared one inconvenience anyway; they are no longer slaves to the biological imperative, he is almost sure. Her woman's blood stopped months ago, he believes; the once-a-month fatigue and thirst has ceased, she no longer has to gulp cup after cup of tea in an attempt to hydrate herself, no longer passes the saltshaker over her food with a heavy hand. He studies his fingernails. She would be mortified to know he knew of such things, most likely, but he is a man made to observe from the shadows, to pick up details, to know when the smallest of changes occur. He remembers his embarrassment when he had first understood her little monthly habits that came as regular as clockwork, sure that this new knowledge was written on him, that this intimate assumption was apparent. Could barely look at her without his face coloring the shade of old bricks.

 _This will change nothing. This will change everything_. He argues with himself tiredly, going around the same mulberry bush and coming up with the same answers.  _This is only a bit of comfort for them. He is in love with her._  He toys with the cuff-links on his desk, absentmindedly twisting them in the light, watching the edges glimmer and shine.  _Nothing much would happen were they caught. It would be their utter ruin._

_He should not want this._

_He wants nothing but this._

Carson glances at the clock, notes the time. She will come, he knows, even if it is to refuse him, to refuse them, to deny this. She is no coward, physically or emotionally, so he settles back to wait for her. It occurs to him that she may have changed her mind, she might have come to her senses, weighed her options, refused to gamble. She could have.

He does not think this is the case, however; if anyone will back out, recoil, it will be him. She has always been the brave one.

And there is the gentle scraping, the almost inaudible click, the turn of the key.

He opens his eyes, prepared to accept whatever she will give him -- her slight touch, her coldest shoulder, her craving body. Whatever she sees fit to share, to bestow, is fine with him right now, and all protests and second guesses and should nots have fled his mind. His door opens slowly and he stands -- ready for ascension, perdition, whatever falls between. Ruination, release. Baptism by fire.


	12. Precision

She opens the door slowly, casts a final look over her shoulder, steps inside. Pushes the door closed behind her, turns the lock.  _Well, here I am_ , she thinks without turning.  _It's all there is, here is what I have to work with_. She is in her stocking feet but otherwise fully dressed; had the forethought to leave her shoes in her room, to make less noise ghosting down the corridor to him. Exhales a long, unsteady breath. She has ( _not really_ ) given up trying to figure this out, the whys and wherefores, because it all circles around to the beginning. Downton is her life, the life she has chosen, the one she has made, and so it only makes sense that this part of her life -- this most intimate, most secret part -- happens at Downton, as well. And what is he if not a cornerstone, a supporting beam, a foundation block of the place? Elsie stands there, rests her forehead against the door. There are no second thoughts for her now, only this fear of being bare, vulnerable, without her carefully sculpted walls of black muslin and white tulle and hard, unyielding whalebone. She is, admittedly, afraid that he will not want her -- her days of firm lift and curve are gone; she is softer now, heavier, there are as many swells as dips to the line of her body. She is no Countess, no Lady, frail of bone and fragile of waist; she is still, after all these years, a farmer's girl -- naked face, strong hands, straight back, heavy thigh. He spends his days stepping and fetching for women who drip silk and lace from sharp angles and perfumed peaks, but that can't be helped.  _It's all there is, here is what I have to work with._

Carson stands when she enters the room, watches her close and lock them in. She is clad still in her clothes from the day but she has slipped to him in silent stocking feet; he watches her there, head bent to rest against the door. Soft angle of neck, heavy weight of hair, and he thinks it is her feet -- covered as they are in dark, clinging cotton -- that make her so vulnerable right now, so tender. He's not quite sure why, but there's something about the instep, the arch, the slight lift of the heel that he finds heartrendingly delicate, fragile. He is without foolish notions, she is not fragile, he knows this better than anyone, but right now they are both a firestorm of nerve ending and synapse, fumbling gesture and insecure movement, and her small feet are defenseless, unshod, sensitive. He realizes he has never seen her bare feet before, after all these years; even during the hottest months when they're all desperate for a breeze, a cooling rain, anything, he has never seen her feet naked. He wants to now, very badly. She stands all the time, walks constantly, sweeps up and down the halls quickly, silently, almost never sits; her feet stay as busy as her capable hands, are never allowed to stop moving. He wants to peel the stockings from her now, expose her ankles, her arches, her creamy calves. See for himself where all of that strength and grace and agility lies. Wonders if she would let him. Wonders wildly if that's  _normal_. Carson crosses the room slowly, carefully, until he is standing behind her. She has not spoken, has not turned to look at him yet.

She feels his hands light on her shoulders, tentatively, questioningly and she sighs against the wood beneath her cheek. His every move is so subtle, and she suddenly wants that, needs it. Her first instinct was to be fast, biting, hard, to take up her sword and lay waste to the village in the name of this thing, to burn and pillage and plant her standard on the scorched earth she leaves behind. _To see it done_. Now, with him touching her so lightly, so silently, she knows what it is, what's been buried beneath all of the frustrated, screaming want. She isn't sure what he wants from  _her_ , what  _he_  needs this to be, but she thinks she can make that decision for both of them. Will take that chance. His fingers are nervously fingering the seams of her dress, counting the stitches like a blind man would, lifting and dropping the tiny tents of material he makes. Strong thumbs are biting gently into her shoulder-blades pressing, circling, reading the long scapular bones. Elsie inhales again, exhales, and lifts his hands to her hair. She still does not turn, does not speak, but guides his fingers into the soft gathered mass, closes his fingers around a hairpin. Slowly, gingerly, he pulls, removing it, sitting it down on the dresser with a small click. She braces her hands against the wall, takes a step back so their bodies just meet; he is pressed against her now with the slightest of touches, their clothes barely brushing.  _Click_. He continues to pull hairpins, carefully, tenderly, and she feels her hair beginning to fall over his hands, over her shoulders, against her face.  _Click_. There must be fifteen pins in her hair, twenty, she doesn't even remember now how many it takes to hold it firm through the long days of work.  _Click_.

He does his best to remove the pins without pulling, tangling; when one does catch a lock of hair, he stops, unwinds it, smooths the strands. As her hair tumbles free, wave by wave, the scent of lemon envelopes him, drifts around his face. His hands are buried now, covered in silk, in softness, and he has to lift her hair, run his fingers through it to find the lingering clips. Catches handfuls of it in his loosely cupped hands, brings it to his face, rubs it against his jawline, his cheek. Drops it, watches it as it falls down around her shoulders. He has never seen this before, never seen her without the perfectly controlled coiffure. This is all new, shockingly so; after decades alongside each other, they know so little, have seen so few secret moments.  _It's a cruelty,_  he thinks and not for the first time lately, a cruelty the way they are expected to cut off their lives, their emotions, their desires in order to serve the classes above them. He had always been happy to do so. Until now. Until her. Until this. He finds the last pin and tugs it free, lays it aside. Rests his hands awkwardly on her shoulders again, unsure of what to do, how to proceed, if he should press. She has not faced him yet and he is growing more unsure with each moment she spends staring at the wall. He feels, rather than hears, her shaky breath and she is turning under his hands now, twisting toward him, and finally he can see her face. High color, glistening eyes, parted lips; her hair ripples and scallops around her face, rejoicing in its freedom from its long confinement.

"Mr. Carson, if you will, please."

Elsie takes his hands from her shoulders, places them against the front of her dress. She wants this part over with; wants to shed her clothes, let him see her, let him know just what he's getting in this deal. If he wants to back out, reject her, then let him do it sooner rather than later so she can gather up her shredded dignity and crawl back to her room to drink it away. That's already planned, already laid out and waiting for her. Earlier, she had snatched the sherry bottle from his office, a single glass, left them on her bedside table. Strong she might be, but not strong enough to accept that type of blow without something to dull the ache, buffer the sting. She looks up at him, meets his eyes; he is standing with his hands pressed to her collarbones, unsure of what she is asking, unsure of his next step, and she finds herself endeared, charmed, empowered by how helpless he is at this moment. How without guile, without his usual cleverness and acidic wit. There is almost a shyness there that her heart responds to, and her own insecurities fade a bit. Not entirely, not even a lot, but a bit. She is brave enough now to place her hands over his, press them with small, soothing motions, close his fingers around the top button of her dress. She wants him to do this, for some reason she can't quite name ( _but she can, yes, she can name it and should likely be ashamed of it - she wants his flawless service, his skilled hands, his deferential perfection for her own, for a change, wants to be the one who tells him what to do, how to do it_ ).

"Undress me."

It isn't a request, or a plea, or a question. She is ordering him, however gently, to take her clothing, to make her naked with his own two hands. His breathing hitches and his eyes close for a moment, then his fingers begin to move. The small buttons of her dress are cool to the touch, difficult to grasp, agonizingly slow to slip free of the tight holes that holds them snug. The first gives way and his knuckles graze the soft skin of her throat.  _The second. The third._  His head is rushing, filled with the low hum of his own blood.  _The fourth. The fifth_. He has never realized how different the cut, how much smaller the scale of women's clothing; he had been a valet for so many years, still serves as one occasionally, and he has never known this. Her dress is utilitarian, practical, but it is unmistakably feminine; the darts and tucks and edges all speak to cupping a softer body, a curved one, a body that rises and falls.  _The sixth. The seventh_. There must be thirty buttons down the front of her dress.  _The eighth. The ninth._  The thin white lawn of her chemise is exposed now, and his fingers are between her breasts, shaking.  _The tenth._  The top of her plain cream corset is smooth against the back of his hand, there is a narrow band of satin there that he wants to touch, to kiss, but his work is far from done.  _The eleventh._  She has lowered her gaze and is watching the progression of his hands; her cheeks have reddened.  _The twelfth_. She makes no move to help him and he starts to understand that she is taking her pleasure of him right now, already, that this is part of it for her as well as him. It's suddenly hard to breathe, hard to continue what he is doing, hard to not simply rip open her dress with a single jerk of his hand.  _The thirteenth. The fourteenth._  They are forever, the small cold barriers between her skin and his, they will never end, and his breath is harsher, faster.

She is entranced, enchanted, watching his fingers move down her front, slide between the swell of her breasts. He is being considerate, so attentive not to mar or tear or muss her dress, and his careful work ( _slow, so exquisitely slow_ ) is making her legs tremble, the pulse in her throat flicker and pound against the skin. She had known how he would be about this, had known it as sure as she knows anything, but she had not known the effect it would have on her. Had no idea how standing in front of him, being danced attendance on, would bring the heat between her legs, behind her eyes. She wants to touch him in return ( _badly_ ), wants to push aside the crisp, clean shirt and run her palms over the wide chest ( _badly, so badly_ ), but he has work to do, he must  _attend_  first. There is no pretense here, she does not wish to be a Countess, or a Lady, or anything other than what she is; there is no secret fantasy or dream haze to this for her. It is all bold relief, stark, hyper-colored, and that is why it is bringing her to her knees, washing over her body like a tidal wave. This is real, perhaps the realest thing she has ever experienced in this house built on ritual and facades and pretty lies, and she cannot hide from this the way she has hidden her true self from everything, from everyone, for so long.

For the first time tonight, a smile lifts the corners of her mouth, curves her lips, and she is joyous, laughing inside down deep, where it counts, where it's truly felt, laughing and gasping as his hands slide under the shoulders of her dress, begin to peel it from her arms. Laughing to think that all this time, all of the fights, the bickering, the disagreements would lead them here, to this room. To this delicate deference, this loving unwrapping. This willing service. This slow salvation.


	13. Persist

She is laughing, quiet and full, eyes crinkled, lips parted. Carson pauses, his hands on her waist, thumbs hooked under the skirt of her dress.  _Gods, what? What is she..._  He eyes her nervously, flexes his fingers against her body. They're standing there in the middle of this lovely stupidity, all tension and desire, him removing clothes at her command. And she's  _laughing_ , sagging back against the wall a bit. "I -- did I -- don't you want --" What in hell's name is  _wrong_  with him? He's stammering, unable to form coherent words. Here he is, a man not shy of his sixty-fourth birthday, one of the best-trained butlers in England, and he's stuttering like a lad seeing his first naked shoulder. He has to do better than this, surely, or she will tire of him, rearrange her clothes, slip back out the way she came. He tightens his fingers on her corseted waist, finds his own lips tugging upward into a reluctant smile at the state of her. Manages to finally speak through his uneven breathing.

"Stop, that's horrid, stop laughing at me."

Elsie clasps her hands over his, guides them up and down her sides slowly, her eyes still sparkling and moist and full of joy. Presses harder, forces him to sculpt her body firmly with his palms. She takes a moment to enjoy how he shakes, how his breath comes hard, before answering him. "Not laughing at you. I just -- this." And now she can't find any words to explain what she's thinking, feeling, how to describe the lightness of being one feels as insecurities and fears drop away, one by one by one. She thinks he wants her now, if she doesn't quite  _know_ , and so she becomes stronger, bolder, less scared of being rejected, less afraid of one more lonely night in her loveless rooms. He is still looking at her suspiciously, uneasily, and she reaches up, smooths her thumb between his eyes, over his brow, pressing out the lines of worry. Ah, but this is so witless, so base, so against everything they'd both claimed to stand for, and she can't go back, can't be sorry, can't pretend she isn't ecstatic to burn it all down around them, finally. She pushes his hands down her torso hard, then, scraping the dress over her hips. It falls into a puddle of blue fabric around her feet. Amazingly, he bends, picks it up as she steps out of it. Folds it perfectly. Lays it beside her neat pile of hairpins. It's enough to stop her laughter, strangle it in her chest. Her nerves are creeping back over her now that her dress is gone; her carefully pressed impenetrable shroud has fallen and she stands, in corset and shift and long sheer underskirt, all of her hope and hurt and every day she has denied herself tattooed on her skin like ink. Part of her wants this to go faster, to hurry, to have the assurance that she is enough, but the slowness ( _the agony, the burn, the slow consuming fire of watching him struggle, resist his own urges, bend his neck for her heel_ ) is too good so she orders him again, her voice soft, imperious, brooking no argument; a voice he has heard her use over and over again but not with him ( _never with him_ ).

"Very good; my corset now, please."

He looks at her, startled. Surely she is not going to make him do such a thing, fight with the fragile ribbons, the tiny hooks, not after the torture of her dress. She is implacable, however, and he places his hands over her bust ( _breathes slowly, counts, commands his fingers not to grope or fondle, not yet_ ), slowly slides them around her, fumbles with the ties. He doesn't know what he's doing, and she knows he doesn't, but she remains still, calm, slightest hint of a triumphant smile, betrayed only by the rise and fall of her shoulders, the heat pouring from her skin, the faint flush creeping up her neck. The perfect valet, the flawless butler, and he can't manage a woman's undergarment. Curses himself for not knowing this. Does he untie it? Unhook it? Both? He shouldn't untie, surely, he'd have to unlace the white ribbons, pull free the stays. But... the hook-and-eye closures are minute, complicated, he'll never manage them with his big hands, his now clumsy fingers. He lets out a frustrated, useless breath. "I don't -- where do I --  _show me --_ " She's laughing again, silently, and she puts his fingers over the hooks. Shows him how to grasp the fabric just so, push the hook-and-eye toward each other and pull. Again, he holds back, refrains from tearing it open, discarding it. If she wants a valet, a butler, then that is what she will have. As long as he can stand it. As far as he can go. He doesn't think that is much farther now; she is all warmth and softness and close (s _o close_ ) and they have decided to do this, to lay together, to share his bed and now he is learning that she is cruel. The first hook gave way, the second. Many thoughts ( _years of thoughts_ ) had crossed his mind about how this would be, how she would be, but he had not guessed she would have this much control, that she could stand here so still, eyes filled with mirth, ordering him to  _serve_  her, ah gods, she is  _cruel_ , beautifully so. The third hook, the fourth goes, and now her breasts are spilling against his hands, the only barrier her chemise. His progress stops as he realises he can see right through it, the shape and size and shade of her breasts, her nipples. She prompts him to continue, though her breathing is more ragged, shorter.

"Mr. Carson, you're not through. And you'd not leave a job half-done, never in life."

She is slipping, she knows, finds it difficult to persist in her slow enjoyment, her erotic leisure. When her breasts had pushed against the back of his hands, her vision had narrowed for a few seconds, the anticipation so acute she had felt almost faint with it. He is fraying around the edges, becoming more impatient, moving faster, clumsier with the dainty fasteners of her clothing. Still. She will see it through, because she has waited long enough ( _so long, months and years gone by_ ) to have it how she wants it, and he is at his most beautiful this way. He always has been most beautiful when most restrained, most denied, and she'll have him that way a little longer. Closes her hands around his wrists, urges him on in his work. His head drops back and he inhales sharply before leaning down, whispering hard, guttural against her ear. "I can't -- just -- do it, take them off, get it off --" A small moan escapes her lips ( _his control is breaking under her fingers and she knows he wants her now, knows she is enough for him, knows it as sure as anything_ ) and she almost ( _almost, but not quite_ ) gives in, strips away the rest of her garments, has mercy on him ( _but not quite_ ).

He wants to do as she asks, finds a great and tender honor in undressing her, is overwhelmed by the beauty slipping free inch by inch, but he can't any longer, he can't have only cloth and metal and cotton under his fingers when she is so close and she is laughing again. She so seldom laughs; their lives are not ones of amusement and idle pleasure, they are dedicated to work, to strife, to perfecting the environment around them. There is little to be amused by most days, and so her laugh is yet another thing she is unveiling here in his room, letting down, spilling forth, and he wants to catch it, capture it somehow, between his teeth, his lips, in his mouth. Have it for his own. He tangles his hands in her hair, wraps lengths of it around his fists, holds her in place with a hard grip ( _he is being too rough, too fast, he knows, he is pulling her hair, forcing her head back_ ). They have not kissed, ever, not in all these years, not even at Christmas or the New Year and he is desperate for it now, swears to himself that he will gentle his touch, control himself, but not this minute ( _not just this very minute_ ). A kiss, then, one, a real one, and he will do anything she asks, go as slow as she needs, but for now he wants her mouth, those laughing lips, and ( _ah, gods, the taste of her_ ) it is as good as anything could be; she is returning the press and slide and gentle suckle and ( _gods, gods_ ) her mouth is opening for him and everything is liquid hot honey and then her hand, her hand is between their faces and she is breaking away with a sharp inhalation, a shaking voice. She straightens her body, pushes his hands down, guides them to her corset. He is in disbelief, agony at her next words, all wide eyes and open mouth ( _but he does not protest, no, he will never protest, not after the first taste_ ).

"Attend, please, Mr. Carson. We've still quite a long way to go."


	14. Plummet

She has been kissed before, of course she has. Almost sixty years have come and gone in her life, she is hardly a girl being courted by her first suitor. There have been farmhands, and schoolboys, and Joe. She spares a fleeting thought for Joe, lovely Joe, a man she had once loved and hated to disappoint. She had been with him as a young woman, lain with him even, and he had been gentle and kind. So while no stretch of the imagination can call her overly experienced, there is nothing virginal or innocent left to her, either -- but a  _kiss_ , a kiss with this man in front of her here, has left her unable to breathe, to think, to move. Has found herself paralyzed by his taste and touch, by the hands twisted in her hair. She has to break away before she loses all sense of what she is doing, before she climbs his body, pulls him to the floor. His hands are struggling with the last clips of her corset now and she's watching his face intently, expectantly. Her anxiety flares again and she fights the twitch of her fingers that wants to grab the garment, hold it against her front like a shield.  _It's all there is, my dear; it's what I've got to work with._ He is pulling back the busk now, unwrapping her body like a gift, a treasure. Without moving his gaze from her breasts, fully apparent now through the near-sheer shift, he pulls the corset free, halves it, lays it with her dress. She wastes no time wishing for a higher bust, a thinner waist, paler skin; she does, however, fling a wish toward heaven that he wont't be disappointed.

 _What is she trying to do to me?_   _How am I supposed to --_ She stands there, hair falling around her, dress and corset discarded, challenging him with her stare. The room has closed in around them, he feels, reduced itself to a shell around their bodies, holding in all of the energy and emotion and need pouring from their slow touches, this tender torture. He is staring at her breasts, he knows that and he tries to drag his eyes up, away, elsewhere, but his hands are on her hips and the shift is so flimsy, so thin - and ( _ah god, how is he supposed to go slow_ ) her nipples have hardened beautifully, are pressing against the fabric, and he is painfully aware that he is also hard now. She is quiet, still, he realises, and he looks at her, meets her eyes, only to be shocked at the cloud of uncertainty, the embarrassment, and he knows ( _he does, understands what it is_ ) where her fear lies. Her body is being exposed and she is unsure of its worth, its innate desirability.  _That's easily put to rest,_ he thinks, and slowly pivots her hips, making her turn, pulls her hard against him. She begins to protest ( _after all she is not done with him, not by a long chalk, he is sure of that_ ), but he slides his hands up to cover her breasts with one sure motion. He is not still now as before; now he is roughly fondling, tracing, lifting the curves beneath the chemise ( _curves that would spill over his hands if he were a smaller man but he is not a smaller man and they fill his cupped and eager palms perfectly_ ); he is dragging his thumbs slowly over the dark shadow of her nipples. Her choked-off cry, the strangled sound, is far more gratifying than he dreams in his darkest, most profane dreams; she has his forearms in an iron grip and he increases the pressure, not just brushing but grasping, tugging. Her bottom is pressed against him and she is writhing, twisting, and ( _his thoughts grow dim, dark, imagines lifting the underskirt, having her hard against the dresser, the wall_ ) he drops his mouth to her bare neck, her tender shoulders, plays his lips and teeth against the delicate skin, pushes his hips against her, wants her to feel his arousal, to understand what her body is doing to him, to be assured of his need. After a long, agonizing time, after what seems an age of slow, exquisite torture, only when he is satisfied that she understands her allure, feels how badly he wants her, does he muffle a groan against her hair, release her and help her turn back to him, holds her steady on her feet. Takes a moment to catch his gasping breath before trying, and failing, to speak calmly.

"I believe you were going to instruct me further, Mrs. Hughes?"

 _He believes I was going to instruct him further --_ Elsie thinks she heard that correctly, but who can tell? Her head is rushing, roaring; her nipples are tender and aching, her breasts swollen from the merciless stimulation, all of it working to tighten the knot of pleasure in her core. Her resolve is slipping again, sliding even in the grip of her desire to control this. He is standing in front of her, looking down at her, holding her loosely between his hands. The top buttons of his shirt have slipped their holes and suddenly she has to see him, to touch him, to feel the reality of him. She has a strange and irrational thought that perhaps none of this is happening, that she has strayed too far into a fantasy, that she will come to in her bed with tears on her face yet again. She reaches up, begins unbuttoning his shirt, watches with fascination ( _and relief, he's real, he's here, this is not another endless night on the other side of that hateful wall_ ) as his skin is revealed with each opened inch. He tugs at her wrists briefly, rumbling something about her clothes, her shift, something  _(who can hear with such a storm in their head)_ , and she slaps his hands away. A swath is bare for her now, covered as it is with soft hair ( _the hair is silver, no longer dark, they have grown older and he is so beautiful to her, mythical in his age and width and breadth and height_ ) , and her lips part ( _her tongue is starved for him, parched_ ); she leans and presses her mouth, hot and hard, pushing his shirt away to cover the acre of his chest with her tributes. This is forward of her, oh yes, terribly forward; this is nothing a lady would ever do but she is no lady. Elsie Hughes is nothing but a slip of a lass from the Highlands, curved of hip and heavy of bone, and if he finds her shocking then so be it. She is too far gone to care now, too deep in these hazy waters to pretend and his skin is all salt and tang and whispered promise.

Carson is dumbstruck, shocked, yes, at her actions, her ministrations, her pretty mouth moving over his body. He has known women before but not one, not a single one, not even the few he paid, had ever touched him like this, all heat and hunger and sybaritic savor. A clarity is taking place in his mind as she tends to him; she is here because she wants to be  _with_ him, lie with _him_ ( _a part of him could not believe this, had not believed this_ ) and this new understanding is buckling his knees, winding his pulse, and her lips have lit on his nipple, cautiously opening to touch it with her tongue; finding it pleasing, she gently sucks and, God help him, he is captured by her now, he would burn this house down if it meant she would do this again and again. He gropes around her waist, finds the band of her underskirt and hooks his fingers under it, working it down, pulling and pushing but trying his best to not disturb her position ( _do not stop, do not stop, do not, do not stop that, you must not stop doing that_ ). Lost as she is to her pleasure, her discovery of his body, she allows him to shove the filmy slip down and it floats to the floor, finally. He can't see her body, pressed as she is against him, and he can't ( _will not, no, not yet, he cannot end the sweet punishment of her mouth_ ) push her away from his chest and shoulders and the parts of his neck she can reach; he reaches then, blindly, for her waist again, yanking up her chemise, searching for the ribbons and bows that should be there for the pulling, the untying. His breath leaves him in a painful rush when his senses realise what his mind hasn't quite grasped; his hands have landed on bare skin, his palms are filled with the smooth, cool roundness of her hips. There are no more layers, nothing else between his hands and her body, she has not worn anything under her skirts except her stockings. His fingers clamp down and he cannot help the soft profanity that slips. Her mouth curves into a smile against his chest, he can feel her smile, feel her warm breath on his skin.

Elsie exults. If her control is slipping, if she is crumbling around the edges, he is going with her, her man of stiff collar and stern voice and tightly-laced life; he has obeyed her, done her bidding, not argued ( _her mouth against his chest again, gods, the taste of him_ ), she has won; oh yes, he is shaking, gasping, pulling at her, pleading with fingers and eyes and straining body. Ah, but he isn't alone, no; she is close to sobbing with her need for relief, for release, to stop this and take him to bed and  _take him,_ to open her arms and legs and mouth for his body, to envelope him. She pulls the shirt from his arms, his hands, does not take the time to fold it carefully and precisely the way he likes ( _can't, not now, she'll iron him five tomorrow if need be_ ). Raises her arms and he immediately responds, drawing her chemise up and over her head, tossing it onto the dresser, and now they are almost laughing with relief, the shaking relief felt when one has narrowly missed death or great pain. She snakes her arms around his neck and he is wrapped around her in return ( _they are pressed together, finally, without so many barriers, months, years, decades of walls and dividers without touch, without feel_ ) and she is shivering with the pleasure of him, urging his face down to meld her lips against his and they kiss for a long, hungry time.

The house is silent around them, sleeping, blind to the moments they are stealing; they will not be so lucky always, even often ( _if they are together again, they cannot think about that now, cannot concern themselves with tomorrow_ ), but right now it is midnight, the witching hour, and it's if they have cast a spell, a protective circle, a warding charm to give them this one thing, this single unbroken stroke of time. Later, they will have to sort it, understand it, make rules around it and enclose it in a frame, but for now, no. For now, there are no limits, no uniforms, no titles or positions or reputations. For now, there is only this, and them, a small room and a warm bed. The lure of making this love. The inevitable grief of it, the oncoming joy. The endless blue depths, the blinding white fire.


	15. Peak

He is the one to break the embrace, to thread his fingers through hers, guide her toward the bed. It is growing colder and he won't have her chilled, uncomfortable; he pulls the blankets down and urges her to sit, takes the time to kneel, pull her stockings down her thighs, over her calves ( _muscular, toned, all those years up and down endless flights of stairs, he knows_ ), hooks them under her heels, slides them off the arch and instep and toes. Her legs and feet are beautiful, strong, where the perfect posture and endless walking and standing and working are centered.

Carson realizes he has never done this, never really examined a woman's body closely; even now, after all they have done, he is shy of it, feels as if he is spying on her, watching her from afar. He bows his head, kisses her knees, does not allow his gaze to travel up between her legs to the hidden cleft ( _gods, her scent, he is being overwhelmed by the scent of her, inviting him, drugging him_ ); he does not think he has that right, to look there, to see her sex, he has never looked there on a woman, was brought up like all men to think of it as secretive, forbidden, complicated. Some things he knows, though, some; he knows to make this good for her ( _and he wants it to be good for her, he wants it to be everything she needs, wants_ ) he should touch her there, but how, where, when, he doesn't know. Her legs part as she pulls herself onto the bed, as she lays back and he jerks his gaze away. Finds that he cannot be correct, cannot  _not_ look, and so he ( _face burning, this is most improper, too bold, too much_ ) looks there and he is so uncertain; she seems so delicate, so easily hurt. He stands then, discards the rest of his clothing, sits on the edge of the bed next to her. Wants to ask her how to do this, where  _exactly_ , but he has his pride and maybe she will understand without him having to say it if he simply tries his best, at least makes the attempt. She is beautiful, resting on his pillows, smiling, coaxing him to lay with her but he is not ready, not yet, he wants to touch the soft delta of her, the hidden inner flesh. He takes a deep breath, exhales, and rests his hand between her thighs, cups her vulva. The heat of her is shocking, titillating, her unsteady whispers more so; it gives him confidence ( _a little_ ) and so he presses his fingers, careful to be slow, gentle, opens her labia ( _oh gods, she is wet there, so wet, his fingers are slipping against the tender skin and his pulse is hammering and his own genitals tighten painfully, pressured, aching_ ). Her whispers have mixed with moans that she stifles against the back of her hand and he explores her folds and contours, clumsily, tentatively and he does not know what he is doing, no, but he watches her face and listens to her sounds, and discovers the eroticism, the pride, the joy of giving pleasure may even ( _he does not know, this is new, all of this, brand new_ ) outweigh receiving it.

Her heart is full, then, breaking with the tenderness and care he is touching her with; his fingers are gentle and questioning ( _so good, ah gods, slipping over her clitoris here and there, returning eagerly to press and seek when she shudders and jerks_ ) and the concentration written on his face is beautiful, holy. It's so hard for her to think now, to move, to do anything but burn and twist against the sheet but she wants him, wants them joined there on his bed, wants to take him in, engulf him, and she is close enough ( _so close, her body is shaking, shivering violently, a collection of tension and expectation and need_ ) that she believes it can happen with his, while they are together. The flush of her cheeks has spread over her breasts, her neck, her thighs are tight, her shoulders pushing against the mattress; she calls him to her, pulls at his arms, his hands.

"Come to me now, come on."

He looks at her and she assures him, whispers her readiness, and he is moving; she opens her legs for his body and he pushes between them, spreads her thighs as wide as possible so he will rest in the cradle of her hips. They move, reposition, go through the small, laughing, awkward moments of two bodies fitting together for the first time; he leans over her, accidentally catches her hair under his supporting arm, laughs apologetically. It doesn't take long to match their bodies plane for plane, dip for curve, and she kisses his mouth, strokes his face and shoulders with encouraging touches. She is ready for him ( _the fullness of him is laying hard against her, seeking entrance with slow pressure, so close to being joined, and now strangely she is peaceful, floating, suspects this is the calm before the storm_ ) and so she takes him without a word of warning, lifts her hips up and suddenly he is fully inside her, completely sheathed and they bury simultaneous cries in his neck, her hair. She keeps him close, still, slides her legs around the back of his thighs, pushes up against him, seals their bodies together with no room to move, no chance to separate, and it is the right thing, the only thing, everything she wanted and needed and never suspected but always knew. Beneath her soothing hands, the muscles of his back and shoulders are knotted, bunched, sliding under the skin with the effort of his stillness and he is pressing blind kisses to her cheeks, her forehead, her eyelids.

When she arches and fills herself with him, everything ends except this, except her beneath him, except her breasts against his chest, except the tight, slick canal encasing his shaft, the small noises of fulfillment they are making. He is tempted to thrust into her body, into the wet hot embrace of her, but he is loath to withdraw from even an inch, cannot fathom pulling out of her and losing their connection. He rocks forward a bit, experimenting, wondering if he can, if they can, like this; he rocks forward against her again, careful to keep them completely joined, pushing strongly against her body, pressing her into the mattress below him and then releasing the pressure. Repeats the motion and is rewarded with her widened eyes, the whimpering against his shoulder, the bite of her fingers into his lower back as she pulls his hips into her pelvis, roughly returning her own slide and grind against him. There is pleasure for her, and goodness, he hopes, because he is losing any ability he had to time or wait or change ( _she is everything, every woman, every feminine touch he has craved, every hot urge, every violent desire, every sinful dream, every sacred ceremony_ ); there is a feverish need spreading from the center of his body, winding through his chest, his limbs, his mind. Almost every waking moment of his life, for decades, has been about control and denial and finally this is about release, about letting go, about having a place to safely give it all up, lay it all down.

She is on fire, caught as she is in the heat of her body, his ( _so beautifully broad and heavy on her, so filling, so large in every way_ ), their matched strong movements ( _oh, yes, finally, the push and pull at the right time, the right momentum, finally, the unstoppable force and immovable object both working in tandem with one another_ ); she is on fire and how perfect it is to burn. He is moaning, muttering unintelligibly against her as he pushes, as she pulls, and it is building, this blaze, sweeping her along in its wake and she tries to wait for him, knows he will not be far behind ( _but is he ever, no, he is always just there in her shadow, always so close at hand_ ). This is all she has wanted, Elsie thinks hazily through the flames, all she has ever wanted was something of her own, something that she didn't have to borrow or share or steal. Something given to her freely, with both hands, to keep by her side and in her hands and heart, something that would make it all worth it; worth waking up to another day of tedious work in a house she'd never call home, worth the long years of a single bed and ringless fingers, worth being mother to other people's children. And, oh,  _there_ , now, he has caught up with her and she carries on as he begins to shudder and plead; she rocks her hips hard, fast, finding the delicious friction she needs on her clitoris, and  _yes_. She is begging now herself, taut and suspended in this terrifying pleasure ( _telling him soon, soon, almost, now_ ), and he urges her desperately to go with him and so, a spiral of ecstatic laughter in her throat, she does.

They fall then, together, from the peak they have built, limbs tangled and mouths pressed against sweating skin; they plummet in the joyous freedom two bodies can bring, even at this age, even at this late day with so many chances wasted and words unsaid. There is grief waiting for them, of course there is, when the ground rushes up to meet them; when their bodies have to untie from one another and the light of day creeps over the darkness and rends the velvet curtains that protect this needful union. There is always grief around the corner, but for now joy is smiling on them and giving them her best blessing, that of forgetfulness, oblivion, the blanking out of everything except this old, primal need to no longer be alone in the world. It is not much ( _it is only their entire lives_ ) and it cannot last, but they do not ask for much. It will not change anything ( _it will change them both forever_ ), but for now, for this sweet, soaring, singing moment, they will take it. For right now, it is enough.


	16. Pensive

They are laying together, side by side, face to face, quietly soothing each other with soft kisses, tender small touches as respiration slows, nerves calm, muscles shake. Tears are covering her face now that is over, done, and he is wiping them as fast as they fall, but there are always more. She had laughed while coming, laughed and cried, hidden in his shoulder, his neck; now the laughter is gone and it has left only these silent silver tracks on her cheeks that he presses his mouth against. He is not sure why she is crying, despite the obvious cracking open of emotions they both just experienced, but he will not question her. He won't say anything right now, he couldn't even if he wanted to, even if he tried. Some things are too big for words, and he is quite right to not even attempt it. Instead, he touches her, slowly, gently, rubs her back, her hip, her arm. Sits up enough to grasp the blankets, draws them up and over their cooling bodies, covers her conscientiously, thoroughly. Gathers her close to him beneath the covers.

Elsie curses her tears, knowing that he is unsure about all of this to begin with; the last thing he needs is her bawling afterwards like a stupid cow. Especially after it has been everything she needed, every single thing she has fantasized about and masturbated to and dreamed of, except better because the details of him, the little things she hadn't known, couldn't have guessed, are there for her to discover and delight in. She no longer has to be content with hazy images and clueless guesses -- she knows now, the feel of his fingers stroking her wetness, the way his back tightens when he is close to spilling inside of her, how soft the hair is on his thighs. What has brought her to tears, though, is his thoughtfulness, the tenderness, the reverence. His concern for her comfort, her pleasure. She had guessed many things, assumed some others, but never that. His shyness about her body, the courtly way he touches her. For the first time in her life, she truly  _understands_ the novels, the ballads, the poems women have written lamenting the loss of this sort of thing, and she cradles his head against her breasts.

He is loose in his body, drifting toward sleep, and he wants nothing more than to rest there against her smooth skin. She is stirring, though, stretching her legs, sighing. The sound hurts him ( _especially after her other sounds, filled with pleasure, relief, happiness_ ), it is melancholy, resigned, and he knows she is going to leave him now, soon. Desperately, he tries to think of a way for her not to, to spend the night in his bed; considers simply locking the door against them all and giving her a brief phantom illness in the morning, giving her the chance to be alone in the hall, to move from his room to hers. Surely the maids can start without her, she has them trained to turn on a sixpence, a well-oiled army of girls in aprons and caps. They could get away with it, just this once, he's sure of it,  _positive_. And if any of the staff suspects something, he'll simply shout them down, put them in their place. There is not a single person downstairs that has the right to question them, anyway. He tightens his arm around her and speaks before he loses his nerve, before his slavery to rules stills his tongue.

"You could stay. I can arrange it in the morning, you can sleep late. I'll make your excuses."

 _Gods damn it._ She has just gotten herself under control, turned off the stupid crying, had started to pull away, leave the bed, and now tears are filling her eyes again and she tightens her embrace on him. Should have moved sooner, started pulling her clothes back on, because she can't stay. She knows that, and really, so does he. They have stolen much this night, but the morning will bring an entire new set of hurdles to pass and landmines to avoid and neither of them can risk it. She can't, certainly, nor will she let  _him_ risk everything he has so carefully and lovingly built. Earlier, she had sat in her room swearing all of this to herself, preparing herself for the wrench of coming back alone to her bed to finish the night in solitude. Had set her heart against it, knew he would want it ( _yes, knew he would be the one to break, to ask, knew it because between the two of them he is the romantic, the singer of love songs, the weaver of flowers_ ) but she knows there's nothing for it. Her voice is deep with tears, the burr so thick now as to be almost unintelligible.

"Ye know I cannae."

 _Cannae_.  _Ye_. He has not heard her say that since she first started working here; it will occasionally crop up when she was scolding an errant maid or, he has to admit, when she is shouting at him for some disagreement they had. Like everything, she had put her mind to smoothing out the jags of her accent, pronouncing every word properly and clearly. Had told him once that she'd never move up if she sounded like the hills of Argyll for the rest of her life. He presses his lips to the valley between her breasts and thinks of how to convince her, how to make it all right. Can't bear the thought of her getting dressed in the cold night air, slipping back to her room, leaving him alone. And, of course, he is a hypocrite and stupid and everything else, he's willing to admit all of it. Fine with it, as long as she'll stay with him, not move from where she is, legs tangled with his, hands cupping his head, his cheek. The idea of the alternative is so upsetting, so awful, that he suspects his own eyes are wet, though he steadfastly ignores it. He is hoarse, quiet, tries to keep the plea out of his voice.

"No one has to know, if we're careful, and we'll be careful -- we know  _how_ to be careful. We're hardly children, Mrs. Hughes,  _we'll be careful_."

She smiles against his hair, pushes her sadness away.  _Mrs. Hughes_. She's tempted to say that surely they are past titles and last names now, but it sits comfortably with her, it fits. Why on earth suddenly start using their first names, names that would lay awkwardly on the tongue and lip, when they have known each other so long as Carson and Hughes? It would be more of a pretense to change than to stay the same, despite what they have done together, what they are to each other now ( _what is that, what are they exactly, she doesn't know_ ), and because they are who they are, she must go back to her room, to the women's hall, close that door between the sexes, between she and him. There is little reason to argue with him, though; his body is lengthening, softening toward sleep, and there's no reason she can't stay until he drops off. No reason not to hold him a little longer, be held by him, no reason to deny herself that when it's all the same in the end. She rests her mouth against his forehead, smooths his hair back, encourages his small, half-conscious kisses of her breasts, her nipples.

"I'll stay, then, don't worry yourself. Go to sleep now. I'll stay."

 _She'll stay._  The frisson of tension in him evaporates and he is suddenly drugged, overcome with the need to close his eyes there in the midst of her lovely smell and feel and sound; suspects he will sleep better tonight than he has in, possibly, ever. Her hands are stroking him in long, soothing caresses, her body has warmed him, and now ( _ah gods, she is everything, every woman_ ) she is humming, singing, just barely, something lovely and lilting, probably something Scottish, he doesn't know, can't quite make out the words, but it has its intended effect. He can feel his mind slowly dimming, closing down, the dark peace spreading through his body and part of him is regretful, wistful; sleep is wasting moments to be with her, to talk to her, to make love to her again. He is no longer a young man, however, and must answer the demands of fatigue more readily than he used to. There is tomorrow, he promises himself silently, promises her. There is tomorrow to tell her everything, everything that he's never been able to say, but for now --

_"Had we never lov'd sae kindly -- had we never lov'd sae blindly -- never met or never parted -- we had ne'er been broken-hearted --"_

Elsie can't remember who taught her the song, probably her mother, surely; maybe an aunt or neighbor woman. Doesn't really matter, she supposes, because he is asleep now at her breast and her heart twists a little at the sight, the feel; like a babe sleeping at the teat, his face has shed twenty years of cares and worries and concerns and ( _oh, she wishes she could stay, she does, wants to hold him here for the rest of the night_ ) another little part of her heart belongs to him. She will give him a few minutes to settle in, to fall into the deep grip of dreams, and then she will pull on her stockings, her dress, wrap the rest of her clothes in her underskirt, which can pass for a sheet in dim light, if balled up, if not carefully examined. If she meets anyone in the hall ( _prays she will not, doesn't think she will_ ), she can say Mr. Carson had been sick, needed new linens. The circle of his arms relaxes, slips away from her, and she knows now she cannot, should not, linger any longer. She kisses his sleeping lips briefly, sweetly. Hates to lie to him, wants to stay so  _badly_. But one of them must keep their head tonight, and she expected it to come down to her.

"M'sorry, my dearest -- I am."

He wakes, hours later, to find his room striped with the first morning's light, and his bed is empty except for his own big body.  _She didn't stay._ In his heart of hearts, he knew she couldn't, knew it was wrong of him to ask her, but he had hoped. Foolishly, stupidly, he had hoped that she would throw it all to the wind and stay there, wrapped around him, that he would open his eyes to her face, her mouth, her body. Carson sighs, rubs his face. He can ask only so much of her, and he has put her at enough risk, let her run the gauntlet for him more than was ever proper or right. But, oh, it was all so beautifully dreamlike, so shrouded in feeling and emotion and heat and closeness that he could never describe, would never try to put words to what they had been to each other last night. If he were pressed for the truth, he wouldn't be able to say with complete surety how it had happened, when exactly. But it happened, it  _did_ , because his clothes are on the floor and the pillow smells of lemons and there, on his dresser, just visible from across the room, is a single gleaming hairpin.


	17. Passing

She has barely seen him today; they simply haven't had the time, what with the upstairs springing last-minute guests and dinner on them. The house had been a flurry of activity and she had been run ragged, darting from bedroom to dining room to kitchen and back, feet aching ( _he had touched them so lovingly last night, pressed his thumbs into the arches, caressed the heels_ ), not even time to have a cup of tea. It has been the same for him, she knows, having to arrange valet service and drinks and writing menus in between dusting glassware, polishing extra silver. Elsie sighs. It is so thoughtless of them, but they can afford to be thoughtless. Their kind always can. She has to admit, though, it is when they are at their absolute best, she and him, performing like perfectly matched gears in a clock. It always goes well ( _mostly_ ), they always pull it off ( _somehow_ ). In a way, she is grateful for the frenzied day, the nonstop work; it gives her no time to be either nervous or lost in daydreams, no time to be awkward or overly sentimental. The few times she has spoken with Carson have beene cheerful but hurried, and he has brushed her arm when he can, a light touch on her back as she is passing by. In return, she has left him a mug of hot coffee on his desk, thrown a smile over her shoulder to him. All things they have done before, certainly, but now imbued with this new memory, this new and uncertain meaning.

Elsie is relieved that he doesn't seem to be regretting it or steeped in guilt or any of the other thousand things she had feared, but then who could tell? They haven't had a chance to  _be_ anything for hours except the precise and mechanical domestic machines that they are during the day. Thankfully it seems to be drawing to an end; the meal upstairs is over, they are dispersing into the library and salons for after-drinks, and the staff can finally sit and eat their own overdue dinners. Her stomach is chewing at itself, gnawing, and she realizes that she skipped tea earlier, had meant to stop and grab one of Mrs. Patmore's lovely ham sandwiches, but something had come up. It is with relief, then, that she drops into her chair and slumps a bit, as much as her corset will allow. He isn't at his seat yet, is lingering in the doorway, giving some final instructions to one of the stableboys. When he does approach the table, everyone stands, per usual, but she isn't even going to pretend. If he thinks she'll stand for him after last night, he is out of his mind. She was never  _required_ to anyway, has only done it out of courtesy to the others - thought if they had to struggle out of their seats, she should make the effort, as well. Not tonight, though. Christ no. If he has anything to say about it, she'll remind him later that it was she who commanded the respect last night, the attendance, the attention. She bites back a grin as they are all seated and the plates come expertly flying out of the kitchen. The table is covered in food in mere moments and everyone falls to; she is clearly not the only one famished tonight.

 _Gods_ , she's hungry! Has to struggle not to shovel the food in hand over fist, not to forego the flatware and just rip apart the chops with her fingers. Not for the first time in her life she sends up a prayer of thanks that she _isn't_  a lady, isn't expected to push at her food and eat only the sparest of bites and leave two-thirds of it on the plate.  _Not a lady._  Her fingers still over her plate and a blush creeps into her cheeks. She had been so hungry, so busy ravaging her dinner, that she has plumb forgotten he is sitting there next to her. This has to be a fine sight for the man who had just made exquisite love with her last night, sitting here as she was tearing into meat and rapidly forking up sprouts. She slowly edges her gaze over to him and, sure enough, he is watching her with a gleam of amusement; she notices he has made short order of  _his_ two chops, however, and is reaching for a third. Elsie allows the corner of her mouth to quirk up in the smallest of sideways smiles at him, arches a brow. Decides to risk just a bit of sass as she slides the platter of meat closer to his hand.

"By all means, Mr. Carson, you've got to keep up your strength."

Looks back down at her plate, crams another sprout in her mouth to keep back the laughter. To give him his due, he does not falter in his motions, even if he does shoot her a shocked look, knock his knee against her leg under the table in warning. She shouldn't tease him, she knows, but she can't help it. They haven't been able to talk ( _or kiss or touch or tangle hands and legs and mouths together_ ) all day, and the tension of it is eating at her. She knows they can't be together again tonight, not for many nights ( _if he wants to be with her again at all, she thinks he does, maybe, but she cannot know_ ), but she needs something. Some acknowledgement that they are all right. Some loose definition of what that  _was_ last night ( _besides a miracle, besides everything she needed, besides the shaking of her very soul_ ), what they are today. She is surprised that he is handling it so well ( _she hopes_ ), equally surprised that she is. They are not used to the things they did in his room; not just the physical acts, but the feelings, the whispered words, the tenderness. Elsie realises that they have dodged a bullet, it could have went so very wrong for either or both of them, could have left them rent in two, at odds, warring even. Could have left them unable to be around each other, unable to fulfill their duties. She doesn't want to count any chicks before they hatch, but if this is any indicator, they may just be all right. They might just be fine.

He breaks her from her thoughts, calls her name. "So, Mrs. Hughes, did you manage to look after your books today?"

She stares at him, trying to read the look in his eyes. He wants something from her, some answer in particular, and she's not sure -- yes? no? Her mind works rapidly, trying to synchronize with his thoughts. She hasn't done her books today, of course she hasn't, she never does them until after dinner. He  _knows_ that. Elsie sips some water to buy time. He's the one who does his ledgers throughout the day so they'll be ready for a final tally in the evening, leaving him free for other matters. She smiles. Of course he is, and everyone  _else_ knows  _that_. He can't very well invite her to his office to "work on his ledgers" when half the staff will beat down his door to complain, to ask questions, to schedule time off. He can, however, be unavailable if he is helping her with  _her_ books. They need some time tonight, need to talk, to be alone for at least a moment or two, and he is throwing her a line so she can help him reel it in. Skillfully, gracefully, she catches it. She always does.

"Of course not, Mr. Carson, you know me, forever the night owl. I was actually hoping you'd look over them with me; we've so many new expenses with a baby in the house now. A second pair of eyes wouldn't go amiss."

Relieved, he answers in the affirmative, helps himself to another serving of jam tart. As they eat dessert, she casually looks around the table, careful not to linger on any one face. Her observations please her. No one is watching them speculatively, no sidelong glances, no studiously averted eyes. They are in the clear, she is sure now, and his presence in her office tonight will be nothing unordinary, just another occasion of the butler and the housekeeper taking a nightcap together, discussing the household budget, the numbers.  _Well,_ she thinks _, some sort of deposits and withdrawals will be discussed anyway_. She chokes slightly on suppressed laughter, clears her throat, places her teacup carefully on the saucer before she spills it. Carson looks at her curiously, widens his eyes in silent query.  _What is it?_  She shakes her head the tiniest bit, bites her lip, lowers her lashes. _Nothing, ask me later, not now._ Dinner is most emphatically over; she is having crude thoughts at the table and  _that i_ s certainly not a habit she needs to get into.

The footmen and maids are beginning to drift away, the kitchen girls are taking up the plates and cups, wrapping and stowing the leftovers. Elsie gives herself a moment to ensure she is in control, then stands, pushes her chair in.

"Well, what about it, Mr. Carson? Shall we have a wee drink and see to those numbers?" ( _Or I could just have you there on my desk, either is acceptable_.)

Really, this is out of hand. She has never been a woman enslaved to her body, her urges, but last night has left her simultaneously sated and hungry, her flames both quenched and stoked. It is the not knowing, honestly; if she just knows where this stands, what to expect ( _or not_ ), how to be around him ( _or not be_ ), when to go to him again ( _or how far to stay away_ ), it will all be easier. He nods, wipes his mouth, folds his napkin. She watches him stand, studies his impassive face. This here, just like this, is fine with her. If nothing else changes except the occasional nights, that is fine. She doesn't expect or want any childish nonsense, no running off to get married, no leaving Downton in pursuit of some fleeting passion, no lavish declarations in front of the world. Just this here will be enough -- Downton can have her days, her toil, her title even, if he will occupy some of her nights, her body, her bed.

No, she doesn't need or want courtship, gestures, rings, all of the trappings that generally go along with a man. It will be enough for her if she can just stake her claim on him - with her hands, her mouth. Engrave her name on his skin. Emboss it upon the bones. Sear it into muscle. Have it written in the flesh.


	18. Perplex

He follows her to her parlour, up the stairs and winding through the hall, mind churning with anxiety and a knotted bundle of thoughts he can't sort one from another.  _It has been a good day_ , he thinks, though they'd had little time to speak or even be in the same room together. She seems in a lovely mood, cheerful, teasing; her bold little statement at dinner had worked to both titillate him and untangle a bit of his worries; but last night had been surreal, beautiful, shocking, and he has no experience in how to deal with something of this nature. Does he mention it? Wait for her to broach the subject? Act like it never happened? He doesn't know, he only knows that he is very much afraid of doing the wrong thing. It seems that right now everything is balanced on the tip of a pin, and it will only take a clumsy word, an unwelcome look, to send it all crashing into something terrible. _What are we now? Where do we go from here?_ She opens her sitting room door and looks over her shoulder at him, as if to assure herself he has followed, that he didn't duck down a side hall or double back; it occurs to him that she is possibly at a loss over all of this, as well. While she has always been the brave one, the practical one, he reminds himself that he saw other sides of her last night. Uncertain, shy.  _She has her moments of doubt like anyone, like yourself._  He smiles, small, tentative; touches her lower back lightly.  _I'm still here, I've not left you._

She closes the door behind them and suddenly her parlour, which is always so comfortable and well-organized, seems overly close, tight, claustrophobic. He resists the urge to tug at his tight collar, to shed his jacket. He meets her eyes and they both immediately look away, find some other focal point in the room. She is so bright tonight, pink cheeked, glowing skin, hair done up a bit looser than normal. Carson wants to touch her, just her cheek, her face, but knows they have to talk about this, mash it out, come to some sort of understanding. He doesn't know what she wants from it and he's even less sure of what he wants. Keeps telling himself that it lacks honor, dignity, that she cannot enjoy creeping through the hall at night; she must feel demeaned, cheapened by all that they are  _not_ , never mind what they are. She is twisting her hands together now, untwisting, letting them light on the closest objects nearby. He takes a deep breath, exhales. Someone has to say  _something_ , one of them has to break this silence. Her fingers war with each other, tugging and sliding, and he remembers with a violent flush how those slender fingers had felt, tasted between his lips ( _sweet and salt and tart and his greedy sucking as she pushed, loved, caressed the sensitive flesh_ ), in his mouth.

"I -- well, perhaps tea, Mr. Carson?"

He blinks.  _What?_  It takes him a moment to get his bearing, to understand what on earth she's asking of him.  _Tea?_  Yes, fine. It will give them something to do with their hands, something to ease their way into this. Agrees with her, tries to help as she bustles from table to fireplace; their hands bump, brush, try to subconsciously mate as she scoops tea into the pot, as he pours the water, as she sets out the cups and he gives her a spoon. He realizes that he knows her parlour by heart; he knows where she keeps her tea things, which cup she prefers ( _the blue one with white flowers, the blue is close to her eyes, he has always known that somewhere in his mind because it is his favorite cup, as well, they have argued over it, he always wins, she acquiesces and drinks from another_ ); he can recite the authors that populate her shelves ( _Stoker, Shelley, Le Fanu, Poe, the gothic and macabre novels and stories that she favors, that mystify him, he doesn't understand the draw_ ,  _it makes him worry that her heart can be so dark_ ). She knows his office, as well, he thinks; she's bound to after all the nights and days and years they've spent between those walls. The tea is ready now, steaming gently from the spout, and he stops her as she goes to pour; he wants to do it, likes waiting on her, tending. It is so rare that anyone does. She smiles a little, concedes, perches uneasily on the edge of her chair.

Her tea is always the same, black with just a bit of sugar, strong, fragrant. His is more complicated, what with sugar and cream and a touch of lemon ( _not enough to curdle the cream, but enough to send tartness gently winding through it_ ). Quite capably, he makes it to their standards and carefully pushes her saucer and cup across the table to her. His chair is an arm's length away, he wants to move it closer, sit with their knees touching, but he doesn't think she wants that. It is probably unwise, anyway; he does not need another reason to touch her, to want to touch her, not after last night, not when she is sitting there in firelight, not when he can smell the oranges and lemons and flowers of her hair rinse, her skin cream. The tea is hot, scalding, but he sips it anyway, welcoming the burn; it shocks him awake, alert, staves off that soft, drugged feeling she causes in his mind, his body. She speaks, finally.

"Well, I think --"

Clumsily, awkwardly, he speaks at the same time, overrides her words.

"What should --"

She stops, he does. He makes a little gesture, urges her to continue. He  _wants_ her to speak first,  _wants_ her to lead this thing; he just doesn't want her to think she's alone on a stage here, that she's groping for a hand that isn't out. Starts to tell her that.

"Please, you --"

"Oh, I'm sorry, you were --"

They've done it again and he exhales sharply, irritably. He is not a man used to letting others speak while he waits; he is used to giving orders, issuing commands, informing people. Even them upstairs, he  _informs_  them, there's none of this dancing around things. Things are said properly and he is losing his patience. He sits his teacup down with a thump ( _his favorite, the azure, the blue that matches her eyes_ ) and speaks firmly ( _he thinks_ ), confidently, doesn't realize that he has strayed into his usual authoritarian posture, his paternal gaze.

"Come now, Mrs. Hughes, out with it. What is it you're trying to say?"

Too late he realizes that he sounds stern, unforgiving, demanding. He sees her eyes widen and then narrow; her fingers stop their nervous knitting and clench into loose fists ( _this is a habit she has when angry, he has noticed this for years, her fingers curl under like claws, she has so much fight inside her)._ Frantically, he tries to repair the damage, but he is not a man used to apologizing or rephrasing or choosing his words carefully, no.

"I only meant that you should get on with it, since we're --"

He trails off as her color deepens and she flies at him, quick, cutting, flashing.

"I should get on with it! You've been no poet yourself, Mr. Carson; why is it that I should get on with it? Is there something pressing on  _your_  mind that you'd like to share?" Her shoulders are tense and he is already sorry; he knew he'd make a wreck of this and that is precisely why he wanted her to do it all, to lay the path, to build the road from here on.  _Gods,_ he thinks bitterly.  _I didn't even let her do that without making a farce of it all._  He tries again to smooth it down, to restart.

"I -- I'm not sure what -- it's just, well, I wanted to know -- are you all right? Everything, is what I mean, is everything all right?"

His words are idiotic, nonsensical, what does he even mean by them? He doesn't know, except he does want to know if she is all right. With it, with him, with them, with everything. Had noticed her wince a bit when she stood today, wondered if he had somehow hurt her, if his bed had left her with a sore back, a stiff neck. But how does he ask such a thing? He cannot bring himself to even mention last night, never mind what was done and where _. One doesn't talk about lovemaking,_ he thinks,  _one does it in the dark and still of night, surely, and leaves it to sleep there._ Carson doesn't even think he had  _words_  to discuss it; profanities and lewdness are completely out of the question but what else is there? Medical terms, odd, stumbling euphemisms? Her temper has died down a touch, the fingers have uncurled some, the set of her body is less stiff. She is still on edge, though, he can feel it radiating off her. It doesn't help that it's so difficult to be with her right now, either; it's impossible to keep his mind on the present, on right now, when all his primordial brain wants to do is flash stills from last night across his vision. Her lips on his chest, his tongue in her mouth, her porcelain thighs parting to reveal her naked sex.

Gulps his tea, forces the scorching drink into the back of his throat, tries to control his thoughts as he watches her cast about for an answer.

"Well, yes, Mr. Carson -- I suppose it is. All right, I mean, everything. And yourself -- everything is -- all right with you?"

He answers in the affirmative, but for some reason he can't let it go with her, he can't accept her answer. He has never been able to just accept what she says about anything, it's one of the things she hates, has told him as much.  _It's not that I'm not sure,_ she'd say ( _has said, over and over again_ ) in one of their storming arguments about the budget, the staff, about whatever, _it's that you aren't, you're the one that doesn't know what to do, don't put it off on me when I know my mind and I mean what I say._

"You're sure? You'd -- say -- if anything was wrong, wouldn't you?" He trails off lamely, staring intently into the fire. His face is red, he can feel it, he curses the stupidity that makes it impossible to speak normally to a woman he had made love with only hours ago.  _Made love with, made love to, was made love to by,_ he amends. He wants to say those things to her, as well, wants to tell her how lovely it had been for him, how perfect, how she had been everything he had imagined and more while standing in front of him, pressed against him, lying beneath him. But what words are there for that, when they can't even manage a proper hello or how are you? Suddenly, he is beyond this, done with it; it's not like they can go back and undo any of it, it's not like he would if he could ( _never, he would never wish that away, he would never repent of her, her touch, her body, never_ ), so why is he sitting here worrying about standards and protocols that no longer apply to their relationship, whatever it is?

He suddenly does not care what it is.

Replacing his cup on the table with a frustrated bang, he stands and she hurriedly puts her own saucer aside, tries to speak, to question.

"You aren't leaving, surely, we've hardly --"

Silences her by bending, placing his hands on the arms of her chair, framing her, boxing her in, and he presses his mouth to hers. Graceless, artlessly, he kisses her, kisses her again, again. Kisses her with no demands, no expectations, only with explanations. With silent promises. With wordless reassurance.  _We are all right. You are beautiful. I don't expect anything. You owe me nothing. You are so beautiful_. Another kiss, and another, and now her hands are cupping his face lovingly, softly, she is pressing her mouth to his stroke for slide, press for graze, kiss for kiss. He teases her lips apart with his tongue, his teeth, deepens his meaning, his message, everything he cannot say.  _I wanted it to be nice for you, I was worried, I didn't want to hurt you, I have never touched another woman in that way, you are so beautiful._

After a few long moments, he breaks away gently, touches her cheek before sitting back down with a sigh. There is a light red flush above the neckline of her dress and he knows that blush spreads down, tints her chest, her breasts. Carson smiles a little, gazes into the fire. She speaks again and her voice has regained its low confidence, its strength, its rolling and lilting that he typically only hears when she is making fun of him, having a laugh at his expense. He doesn't mind right now. Usually he does mind, minds it  _very much_ if he's honest, he is prideful and not a little arrogant, but tonight it's welcome.

"I believe my virtue, Mr. Carson, is not safe with you. Could be we will require a chaperon from now on." She leans to refill their cups and her eyes are sparkling, amused; her lips pink and moist from his advances. He thinks again that she is beautiful, she is, and no one ever tells her ( _maybe that man did, that man who wanted to marry her, take her away from Downton, away from him_ ) and they should. Thinks that she is as deserving of such words as the ladies upstairs who receive them in bouquets, cornucopia, so often that the words have become cheap, banal. He wishes he could tell her all of this, but they aren't like that, they've never been like that. Even after last night, even after just a minute ago, they are not like that. It would rest uneasy between them, ill-fitting, almost garish in their subdued world of shadows and whispers, stolen moments and dark stretches of night.

He accepts the fresh cup and returns her smile. They will remain as they've always been then, it seems, between the lines and the pages, in footnotes and hummed melodies. Perhaps that is all right, perhaps that's as it should be. Perhaps he is having more than he ever hoped to have and should simply accept it for what it is.

"I don't believe it is, Mrs. Hughes. I believe your virtue is quite at risk." Studies her face for a long moment. "Has been for quite some time, really, so I think we can do without the chaperon." Sips his tea. "Speaking of that, I have something that belongs to you -- I'm afraid your virtue isn't quite whole."

"Oh?" She arches her brows in question and settles back into her chair, more comfortable now, more ready to spark and spar. Her shoes have been toed off and she stretches one stockinged foot across and nudges his leg in challenge.

He thinks then that this is enough. If he can see out his life here at Downton, see the children of his adored Lady Mary and sweet dead Lady Sybil ( _and perhaps even sad, pretty Lady Edith, he holds out hope_ ), if he can see them run these halls like their sparkling mothers before them. If he can do that, and this woman is with him, he will die satisfied. He really doesn't need much, just her presence at the table by his right hand, a chair by her fire in the evening, her welcoming body in his bed when she will have him. If she will stay his constant star, his compass rose, his steady light, then it will have all come out right. Elsie is looking at him, though, waiting for his answer.

"Not quite."

He reaches into his vest pocket, fishes about for a moment, finds the object he has been absent-mindedly toying with all day when writing, when reading. Holds it between two fingers, offers it to her. It isn't much, just something she forgot, probably didn't even notice was missing, though he noticed her hair is softer today, slipping free here and there, the occasional strand falling against her face. Still, he has carried it with him like a gem, a jewel, a hidden little treasure to be tumbled and fingered throughout the day when his thoughts strayed to her.

It glimmers there in the firelight, a shining solitary hairpin.


	19. Presume

"The thing is, Mr. Carson, despite what you may have thought, is that you had --  _no -_ \- right! What if she'd sacked me? What then? Were you going to gallantly fund my living for the rest of my days? That would be a neat trick on a butler's earnings, truly." Her face is burning, fists balled and planted on his desk as she tries to refrain from throwing something, striking him. When her Ladyship had let slip this morning that it had been him ( _him of all people, him that should know her_ ) that had informed them ( _and it was all of them, Elsie was sure, Cora Crawley had never been known for her ability to keep her mouth shut_ ) of her health scare, she hadn't wanted to believe it. They have worked together for years, years upon years, and if he knows nothing else at all, he knows how she values what little privacy she has, what little escape from the twisted and pervasive world of service she can find. To tell them that, her most  _intimate_ business, her most  _personal,_ to lay her bare like that in front of them -- how dare he. How  _dare_. And yes, it was ages ago now, probably why Cora didn't think twice about mentioning it, but that is completely besides the point. Elsie has always put it down to Dr. Clarkson, regardless of whatever denials Cora had made, and had let it slide, let it go; thought perhaps Clarkson had simply overstepped his boundaries due to his long history with the family and the staff. Had decided not to make an issue of it, had been touched  _at the time_ by what seemed to be genuine goodwill and support from both the doctor and her Ladyship. Which of course she had been ridiculous to feel, seeing as it was no such thing -- it had been pity, not goodwill, and obligation, not support, because  _he_ had went pleading her case like a god's damned charity orphan to Them In The Big House.  _Please, sir, may I have s'more?_

He is staring at her, jaw set, lips in a tight line. Hasn't said a word since she slammed into his office to confront him, has simply sat there refusing to admit he had been wrong. The paternal role again, the father mind, the _I know better what you need than you do, I will make decisions for you_ that makes her so sick, so angry with him. She lets out a sharp exhalation, crinkles her nose. And this is always his response, to sit silently, implacable,  _you're being irrational, I'll overlook this slip in decorum_. He has no idea how much worse that makes everything. The objective part of her understands that he cannot deal with confrontation like this, doesn't know how to handle it, doesn't know how to express anger or conflict except by shouting it down and trying to crush it in his palm, but right now her sympathy is short and her patience nonexistent with his weaknesses, his foibles. She has overlooked a lot of offenses from him over the years ( _dressing downs, snappy words, even being called a disappointment, a woman of no standards, she had let that go though she should not have, no_ ) but this is too much, too far. The new physical facet to their long relationship did not change that; he is her lover now as well as her friend, her colleague, her equal, and he should have known better. Elsie glares down at him, her chest rising and falling with harsh, angry breaths, white knuckles pressing into the soft green felt of his blotter. What is there to do at this point? Simply be enraged, that's all. She doesn't want to talk to him anymore, look at him, wants him out of her sight.

She straightens then, gives him a last long look, and turns to leave. Time to herself, is what she needs, time without having to smile and pretend they are fine, that she's over it, that he has slipped by with one more assault on her dignity, her autonomy, her status. Fine, then, she'll skip dinner, take some tea and toast in her parlor, some fruit. Meals are the only times she absolutely can't avoid him; the rest of the time she'll make herself scarce in the ladies' rooms, see to their linens and furnishings. Her head hurts ( _her heart hurts_ ) and she is already tired, and here with the day only half through.  _I don't have time for this, I just don't_ , she thinks wearily, and goes to jerk the door open, to get away from him, to have some space. He speaks then, his voice oddly quiet, strangely passive.

"Please don't."

Elsie stands there with her hand on the doorknob and stares dully at the dark wood in front of her, echoing him in her mind, turning his plea over and over.  _Please don't. Please don't what, please don't be angry, please don't leave, please don't hold me accountable for my transgressions?_ She stands, torn between leaving and staying, between space and closeness, between speaking and silence, and yet again ( _this happened with him, only with him_ ) finds herself simply not knowing what to do. He speaks again and he is not stumbling now, not fumbling for words, but there is no fight in his voice, no righteousness, no dominance; there is only this strange passivity, this slightly broken quality, as if he is cautiously trying out words of a foreign language.

"Be angry with me, strike me if it will make it right, shout at me. But don't -- don't do the other."

Elsie is confused, perplexed, her brow furrows.  _The other? What is he on about?_ She's never  _done_ anything to him at all; they've had their shouting matches and their disagreements, but the most she's ever  _done_ to him is freeze him out, turn the shoulder, not acknowledge his presence.

Her eyes close for a painful moment and she exhales in a quiet, tender sigh. And that's exactly what it is, that's  _the other_ , that's what he's begging her not to do, and of course. Of course that's the deep punishment, the deepest cut for him, her upright butler, her lover of black and white, of right and wrong. That's the worst pain because he can't see all the shades and shadows in it; he can only see the left and the right, the polarities. She cares for him or she doesn't, she desires his presence or she wishes him banished forever, she forgives him or she hates him.  _Of course_. Elsie looks down at her hands, absent-mindedly toys with her keys, murmurs. Her words are a breath, a caress, carried across the room to him on an expiration of frustration and understanding.

"Oh, my man -- foolish, horrible man. Ye make it all so hard on yourself."

 _My man._  Indeed, yes, isn't that what he has become? It's a homespun phrase, rough, points back to her girlhood in Argyll; points back to home where a woman didn't refer to her husband, her lover, her beau, but to her man.  _My man is down by the loch -- her man is out in the fields._ This sits right with her, fitting, speaks to all of the years between them, the foundation of friendship, mutual sympathy, of work and toil. They don't spend their days in earth and water, no, but all the same their little empire is built on dirt, wasn't it? Dirt and dust and sweat? It speaks to that. Speaks to the hot urgency between them the other night, the natural, primal rhythm of their joined bodies. She turns to him and it hurts, it does, his guarded expression, the apprehension in his eyes. She's not one for grudges, never has been; she gets no enjoyment out of humiliation, ritual abuse to make a point. But he has to learn at some point, he has to understand. If they are going to go forward with this, remain -- together in their unique way, then he has to understand this now. She won't be patronized, she won't be controlled, she most certainly won't be overruled and decided for and treated like a simple-minded child.

All the same, nor will she leave him unsure of her, caught in the pain of not knowing. They've come too far for that, she can't fathom dancing backwards all those steps, so she has to say things to him, hard things, and hope they get through his obstinate mind, his walls of stone. She goes around his desk where he sits, hands tightly laced together on top of his papers, neck stiff. Waiting for the blow. Elsie leans, holds his face between her palms, kisses him, once, twice; hard, rough kisses that drive the breath from him, that make him grasp her hips in his hands and squeeze, clutch, dig into the curves there. She takes her mouth away, ever aware of the unlocked door, the house buzzing around them. Figures she can chance one more risky moment to hold his face hard, make him look her in the eye.

"I'm still angry, Mr. Carson. I'm furious, in fact, and am likely to be for some time. You were wrong. No,  _don't_ argue -- you were wrong." Feels his fingers grope convulsively at her thighs, sees his throat constrict with his swallowed pride. "Don't do it again. I mean this. Don't you ever." He jerks his head in acknowledgement of her words, says nothing, tries to look away. Her hands force his gaze back to her face. "But I won't -- I won't do that anymore. I'll shout and carry on and slam doors, probably, but I won't do the other. I promise." Carson tries again to turn his head but she won't have it, won't let him retreat into his own mind, won't let him start mentally counting silver or adding figures or whatever it is he does when he wants to safeguard his ego, his heart. She softens her voice a touch, gives him another quick, stern kiss. "I won't."

She has dared as much as she can ( _too much really, at this time of day, anyone could open that door, walk in on them, on this_ ) so she pulls away gently, straightens her dress where his hands have rucked it about, smooths a lock of his hair back. There's work to be done, and she's still angry and she won't drop this, but now he knows. Now they both know. It has changed them, this thing, the only way from here is forward. There can be no more silent treatments, refusals to deal with problems, repressed rages, hidden unhappiness. It's a betrayal to what they are, what they have to indulge in such foolishness anymore. While she hasn't enjoyed this ( _it has hurt her heart, her head, her stomach; has probably done the same if not worse to him_ ), it had to be done. And what are they but constant laborers? Fixers and solvers and endless working hands and bending backs and moving feet? They are not cowards, either of them ( _though they both have their fears, oh yes, they both have the terrors that wake them in the night; she fears obliteration of her true self into the machine that is Mrs. Hughes, he dreads appearing foolish, pointless, obsolete, a throwback laughingstock_ ), and so from now on, it's into the wind, against the wave, up the hills when need be for them. From here on out, the only way through is  _through_.

 


	20. Progress

She is suppressing laughter, hissing warnings, fighting him, trying to extract her hand from between his. Her door is standing open and anyone could walk by and this hardly looked innocent; though, she has to admit, they've been in far more compromising conditions than holding hands. Still, it's foolish, and needs to stop. There are still a few hairpins to place before she gathers her hat and coat and starts off; that's why he's here, after all. Had stopped by to walk with her to church as per usual, but here he is now touching her fingers, rubbing her palm, trying to kiss the delicate tips and --  _no. Not that_. If she lets him do  _that_ they'll never get to church, which is disgraceful enough, but it would lead to other activities and that just can't be allowed. Good lord, outside of marriage is bad enough, on the Sabbath would send them both  _straight_ to the fire. He's pulling at her arm, smiling, cajoling ( _but he is also alert to the hallway, as well, ready to drop her hand at any given second_ ). Wriggling, wrestling, she manages to extract her wrist from his grip and turns back to her task, finishes doing up her hair, pushing the pins in firmly, giving him a half-hearted glare in the mirror. If she told the truth, it does her heart good to see him relaxed, almost playful, a little less worn around the edges. She doesn't fool herself into thinking she's the entire cause for his reduced stress load, but she hopes she might contribute in some small way. They've been informed that the family will have a holiday abroad at some point, time yet to be determined. Elsie wrinkles her nose at her reflection. They are going to Scotland, apparently. She isn't sure how she feels about that.

He studies her, watches her finish dressing her hair, putting on her hat. Carson stands then, unhooks her coat from the rack, holds it for her arms. He is oddly glad about the Crawleys going to Scotland for a holiday, oddly relieved that he can stay at Downton and keep the house going in their absence. It is new, this feeling; normally he would be miffed, put out, would bristle at not being needed, but now there is her. The thought that they can be ( _a little_ ) less careful, have more idle time, not be worked to death with the nightly dinners and all the rest of it is appealing, restful. She has finished buttoning her coat and has her handbag, is looking at him expectantly, gives him a sharp little nudge toward the door. Carson looks down at her, well-scrubbed and pretty in her dark green dress, and he wants her quite badly. They have lain together only that once, weeks ago now; he has not asked her to return, preferring to leave it her decision, but perhaps it would not hurt to let her know, to remind her his room is open to her always, waiting. He pushes the door to for a moment and bows his head to her ear, kisses it gently, whispers.

"Tonight -- will you?"

A small sigh leaves her and she shakes her head; presses a silent kiss to his cheek as she answers in a low voice. "If only... Lady Mary's friend is coming tomorrow, I have to be up with the crows to get her suite ready.  _You_ have to be up with them to write new menus; doubtless Her Highness wants something special." Another small kiss to his jawline. "But soon. As soon as I can." She pushes him back up to his full height with a gentle hand and opens the door; he gives her a long-suffering look before leading the way out. It will be rare, he knows ( _knew from the start_ ), the times when they can share a bed, and he certainly doesn't place more value on those moments than moments like these ( _the talks the walks the tea the wine_ ), but he can't help but curse this friend, this whoever who is stealing their opportunity. Then again, they're all off to Scotland at some point, so then,  _then_ they will have time.  _Then_ they will lay together,  _then_ he will convince her to stay the night, to not leave his bed, to sleep on his chest. She walks beside him, companionable, warm, and he thinks that it isn't just the sexual part of it that he wants, needs, it's the contact, the skin on skin, her body heat, her softness, the way she smooths him out and takes the edge off all of it.  _But not tonight,_  he grumbles to himself. He wonders how she feels about the family going to Scotland, about the fact that she hasn't even been invited ( _as far as he knows, he suspects that she keeps things from him sometimes_ ) when it's her home country, when she's the only actual Scot among the entire clan here. It rankles him, irritates him, he has considered approaching his Lordship about it, but they are  _just_ over her anger about his interference earlier this year, about his ( _what had she called it, oh yes_ ) patronizing ways. Knows he has to leave it alone, let her handle it. They move through the kitchen and out into the courtyard, the frosty air biting at their faces.

"So, Mrs. Hughes."

"So, Mr. Carson?"

He offers his arm, which is fine, acceptable, expected actually -- the ground is somewhat icy, slick here and there. All around them the men are extending helping hands to the women -- Alfred has Ivy on his arm, Molesley has O'Brien, Thomas is grudgingly helping Daisy pick her way over the cold flagstones. And if Elsie's fingers wrap a little firmer, if her grip is a bit more caressing, who could see? Her hands are gloved, his overcoat thick. Carson warms at the stolen touch, then turns the conversation to his present worry.

"Are you grieved that you'll not be going to Scotland? I'm sure you could, you know, if you asked his Lordship, I'm sure he'd see to it that you could go home for a spell. A few days, if not the entire holiday."

She looks up at him briefly, gives him her familiar wide eyes of exasperation. She doesn't know how to feel about it. There's nothing there for her, really, not since she and her sister had left it all behind ( _the farm, the wet and muddy fields, the endless winters trapped in a hostile house, the empty eyes of their mother who urged them to go, get out, get away from this place_ ). The pair had done just that, still just slips of girls, barely out of their teens. They had fled across the border to England; she into service, Glenna into the arms of an English shopkeep. Then again, he doesn't know any of this, Mr. Carson doesn't. She doesn't talk about it; Scotland is a place in her past, her memory, and she's never been one to dwell there long. Doesn't want to go into it , but she won't lie to him either. Worries at her lip with her teeth, gives him the only answer she has.

"I don't know, Mr. Carson -- I don't know how I feel about it. It's not been home for a very long time, you know. Not for --" She does some quick mental arithmetic. "-- not for almost 40 years. I daresay there wouldn't be much to go back to." He pats the hand clasped in the crook of his arm, gives her a frown of sympathy as she talks it out slowly, piecing together her feelings aloud for them both. "I suppose, maybe, one day I should go back just to see what's becoming of it all, but truth be told, I think I'll be glad to stay here at Downton. With everyone." She gives him a meaningful look.  _With you, here with you._

They walk along, several paces ahead of the others as always, leading the downstairs procession into the village. They all stop for a brief moment to let Anna and Mr. Bates meld into the group, then continue on. It's cold out, but it's a nice enough walk if one is bundled up warmly and they all are, and they've left with time to spare, so no one rushes, no one hurries. The younger footmen caper a bit for their girlish counterparts and she pretends not to see, doesn't let Carson see, either; just tightens her hold on his arm and makes him match his stride to her shorter one. She's touched by his concern for her, by his worry that she not be overlooked or neglected. He knows almost nothing of her life before Downton, she realizes; all these years and she has shared so little of her inner self with him. To be fair, that kind of walled-off interior is what their life of service required, loneliness was part and parcel of the job. But now... now there was him, and this, and she feels a long-closed door open just a smidge, a crack, and a tiny shaft of light falls in. Her voice is abrupt, strained, as if the words themselves are dusty and unused.  _Which,_ she thinks, _they are,_ she's not uttered a word about home to anyone in years, decades.

"It wasn't good there, Mr. Carson, if I'm to be honest. It's not a place I think of." The last part is a lie. Scotland still haunts her dreams, Argyll still hovers around the corners of her mind on the darkest, wettest days of the winter. The sound of broken crockery still makes her heart lurch once or twice a year, the scrape of heavy masculine boots on the kitchen tile can still make her stomach sour and turn. It's not often, but it's still there. It always will be, she accepts this, and again she feels compelled to be as honest with him as she can be, so she amends her sudden statement. "Often."

His brow darkens at her unexpected small confession and he finds her hand again on his arm, squeezes it. They are approaching the church and so there's no time for him to reply, but he takes her secret, her sad little gem, and holds it close to his heart, squirrels it away for later to turn over, to examine. They are all filing in now, shedding overcoats in the vestibule, making their way to the pews.

The service is long and dull, and he almost drops off on occasion but for her firm poke in his ribs, her look of semi-amused disapproval. It is over, finally, when he feels her rustling next to him, gathering her handbag; he stops making his mental inventory of the silver ( _his go-to for any dull or unpleasant situation_ ) and rises, shakes hands with the other butlers in the pews around them. She's winding through the crowd now, socializing briefly with other housekeepers, head housemaids, exchanging idle gossip. He smiles.  _That's what church is mainly about for the women_ , he thought,  _finding out who's walking out with who, who's been sacked from where_. Makes a mental note to tease her about it later. The smile fades as her words whisper in his brain again.  _It wasn't good there, Mr. Carson. It's not a place I think of._ There's damage there; he doesn't know what, or who, but she has been damaged by something in her past, something in her homeland, and he feels his shoulders tighten. He won't press her about it, suspects it to be fragile, unsteady ground. Has to be, it's the first time she's mentioned it in all their years together at Downton. It occurs to him that this new closeness, this new understanding between them ( _her man, she calls him her man when they are alone together, when she is angry even, he has never been a woman's man before, it was like being knighted, chosen, had clicked into place like an essential supporting bone in his oversized skeleton_ ) is the reason she shared that with him, opened a slit in her layers of invisible veils.

Elsie reappears at his elbow and he cuts a swath through the crowd for her, for them, retrieves their overcoats. They step out into the winter afternoon together; it has warmed up considerably, the cold now just a chill, and he wishes for a reason to linger in the village, to not immediately return to the house and start seeing about the luncheon. Wants an excuse to be alone with her, just for a few minutes; it seems that the entire household is on top of them  _all the time_ , that they can't so much as look at one another without someone interrupting. _But,_ he philosophises,  _it's what we signed up for._ He can't start wanting things to change simply because  _they_ have, the world isn't going to stop turning outside of their little emotional cocoon. Still. _Still_. Perhaps the days until the family leaves for Scotland will fly by, perhaps if they stay busy their reward will come all the sooner.  _Perhaps_. She takes his arm and they set off in the direction of Downton, in the direction of home. Or what passes for it on a good day.


	21. Proven

The days go by; Lady Mary's guest comes and goes, bringing with her a flurry of work and details needing tending to. Then the shooting weekend, filling the house with men and guns and dogs and all of their exhausting demands. They go, finally, all of them, and she promises to herself that she will see him tonight, give herself ( _and him_ ) that as a treat, a reward, steal some time for loving. She needs to see him because she hasn't been right inside since that walk to church where she had spilled open, talked about home ( _talked about it_ ); her chest has been tight, panicked, uneasy. Elsie still isn't sure what possessed her to bring it up, to speak of that ancient history. She thought it was done, she thought she was over it, but suddenly now in her middle age, in her fifties for heaven's sake, she is not over it. In fact, she is the opposite of over it. Truth be told, she thinks she may be sort of cracking up. The winter hasn't felt this bitter in a very long time; she can't get warm no matter how many quilts she piles on her bed, no matter how thick her sweater, how heavy her dresses. When that door had opened a notch inside her, it had felt like light shining gently in, illuminating it all, chasing away some of the darkness -- he had listened, pressed her hand more warmly between his arm and body, not pushed or pried or dismissed her words. Now, though, now -- it feels like that door ajar has let in a freezing chill, a pervasive ice, and it's all she can do not to actually shiver, shake, hug herself for comfort. Yes, tonight she'll risk it, because she needs his heat. And if he will, she'll lay with him, and then stay awhile. Stay awhile and talk. Maybe.

Later, it is night and the hall is quiet and the maids are trailing off to sleep, one by one. She is pacing in her room, tracking the same steps to and from the door, waiting, waiting, hesitating longer than necessary as a way to keep herself careful, cautious. Her nerves are raw, irritated, and she knows feeling like this is what causes people to become indiscreet and foolish, so she waits, pacing, pacing. At the usual time she feels, rather than hears, that dropped hush fall over the house; she's been hearing it for years now, she knows when the house is sleeping and still, when the lights have been put out and the coals banked. Now,  _finally_. With light feet she leaves her room, slides through the barrier between the halls, quick and silent, like a fleeting shadow with her dark dress, her darker stockings, her heavy chignon of sable hair. She deals deftly with the locks of her room, the dividing door, and finally ( _finally_ ) clicks the key into his door after a thorough scan of the men's hallway.  _Pray he's awake, still,_ she thinks _, if not he will be soon because I'm not going to bed without -- without what I came for_. She turns the knob, casts her eyes up and down the hall one last time, then is through and in with the door locked behind her with a low rustle of skirts, a whisper of wool. Elsie exhales and blinks into the dim light.

He is awake, sitting up against the headboard, one knee drawn to his chest where his book is propped. The book is hastily closed and shoved aside when she enters, the quilts pushed back for him to stand, to reach for her, a smile lighting his eyes. Her eyes close and her fingers twist and bunch in the material of his shirt, making sure of his realness, his tangibility, his rock-solid existence. Making sure of his  _thereness_. The coldness is painful inside her and she wants to see it gone, banish it, at least for a little while, and he will help her, he will heat her, be what she needs tonight, she thinks, if only she can make him understand. She thinks she can. His hands are soft on her arms, his lips pressed to her hair, and he is holding her carefully, delicately, and oh bless him, love him, normally it would be just the way but right now  _it's the last thing she needs._ She needs his fire and thunder and roaring ways, his hard grip, his heavy frame, needs him to meet her on the same grounds. She is coming to him tonight with her lust ( _her love_ ) and her need between her bared teeth, ready for a fight, ready for sweat and work and struggle, ready to drive out the old demon creaking in her heart. For as long as she can. For tonight at least.

"I was hoping you'd come but thought you might be too tired... very glad you aren't, though, I have to admit." His arms are around her and she takes a minute to rest her cheek against him, embrace him tightly, soak up the good, healthy heat pouring through his pajamas. She feels his hands slowly, rhythmically rubbing her back, pulling her as close as he can, kissing her temples, her forehead ( _so sweetly, he can be so sweet, like a boy courting his first love sometimes_ ). It's lovely, so good, so right, but it will not melt this ice, it will not lay waste to this predator, it will not reach this fear in the pits of her heart, so she lays the trap to catch her mate ( _step into my web said the spider to the fly_ ). In answer to his greeting, she pulls his face down for a kiss, seduces him with soft lips and tiny flutters of her tongue in his mouth as she unbuttons his shirt, smooths it over his shoulders, down his arms, leaving him naked from the waist up. A feral smile curls her lips against his mouth and he pulls back a little, arches his heavy brows in question, returns her smile, murmurs against her lips.

"Hm, what are we smiling about, Mrs. Hughes -- besides the obvious?"

Elsie kisses his mouth again tenderly, gently ( _ah, I'm sorry, dearest, but tonight, tonight -- I need you on fire for me, need to feel you burn_ ) before sinking in teeth and claws; her nails rake down his chest leaving angry, red lines, her teeth tear at his lips, gnawing, chewing, and her breath is hard, hot against him. He inhales sharply, shocked, hisses with surprised pain at her assault on his body, but she is merciless, scratching, biting, violently stopping his words with her kisses as she works her way out of her clothing. Her dress hits the floor, tangles with his shirt. While she is rapidly unhooking her corset, he pushes her away, holds her at arm's length. She glances up, her fingers not faltering in their task, meets his gaze evenly, then lets her line of vision travel down his body, over the clawed chest, to the obvious arousal ( _oh yes, he can do it like this, he can, yes_ ). Her frank stare is causing him to falter, to hesitate, to get lost in his confusion.

"I'm really not sure I --"

Her corset open now, she peels it off, throws it carelessly aside where it lands with a muffled thump. She shoves the underskirt off, peels the chemise away, tosses them over to join that hateful garment. She's naked now except for her stockings and she closes the gap between their bodies, her bare breasts sliding against the marks she made on him. He is still staring at her, uncertain, and she knows he is a little afraid of this rough, diamond-hard thing she is tonight, but he wants her ( _she knows that, too, his body is telling her that much, the hardness between his legs has grown, swelled, is pushing against her as she runs her nails up his back, bites at his nipples_ ). His reaction gives her the nerve to speak her piece, to ask him for what she needs tonight, to not fear rejection even though she is being shocking, wanton, demanding.

"Take me to bed, Mr. Carson."

Pushes up on her toes to kiss him, kiss him again, hard, punishing kisses; presses her mouth to his ear and whispers the rest as her hand drifts below his waist, under his trousers, as he moans a curse when her fingers close around him and his hands are covering her breasts, clutching, groping.

" _Take_ me."

He does, then, as she knew he would,  _could_. Stopping only to shed his clothing, he pushes her down beneath him on his bed, spreads her legs roughly, pulls her thighs apart ( _doesn't wait for her to do it, no, she has incited him now, set him afire_ ), and he is inside her with one hard, forceful push. Her wrists are wrapped tightly in his hands, pressed into the mattress next to her head and she is warm now, finally, yes, meeting him thrust for thrust with the rise and fall of her hips; sweat is dampening her hairline, the coarse hair of his chest is scraping against her nipples, and the coldness is gone, replaced by this roaring heat, this soaring fever, and she is content for this to go on and on and on but nothing this furious can last and the climax is building for both of them and she whispers hoarsely against his neck for  _more, gods damn it, harder, please_ , and her teeth are sinking into his shoulder and he is drowning his guttural moans in the pillow next to her face and then,  _yes_.

Afterwards, she lays with her back against his chest, curled against him; they both wait for their breathing to slow, don't attempt talking until the rushing in their ears has died down. She wants to talk, she realizes, needs to. Needs to let more light into that cracked door and here is her man, her oldest friend in the world, her best friend in the world, the one she can trust because they have years behind them, years and years. She needs him to know her better, at least a little, needs him to hear what she wants to say. If she's going to stay awhile, though, some things needed tending to; she sits up, pulls gently away from his clasping arms, patting him blindly, reassuringly. Glances over her shoulder, strokes his face.

"I just need a bit of a wash -- do you have --"

He pushes up on his elbow, runs his hand through his iron-grey hair.

"Yes, of course -- here, let me." He is up then, pulling on his pajama bottoms, his robe, doesn't bother with the shirt. There is a hot water bottle on his nightstand, meant for his bed, but he uncaps it, pours the water into his face basin for her, takes a facecloth, a hand towel from his chest of drawers. Elsie rubs her bare arms against the chill and smiles at his little ministrations, his caretaking; she had only wanted a moist cloth, really, but she should have known that wouldn't do, not for him. She bends, removes the stockings that have slid off of her thighs, down her calves. Carson flips open the lid of his luxurious shaving kit ( _one of his weaknesses, expensive toilette, she has always known this; she often gets him exotic soaps and shaving oils for Christmas, for birthdays_ ) and retrieves a small bar of new soap. Makes a neat little stack on the washstand for her, gestures to it, courteously turns his back, busies himself straightening his bookshelf on the other side of the room. She smiles again and tends to herself there, carefully washing and patting dry her sex, her thighs; is careful to leave his basin tidy. Grimaces at the thought of pulling on her clothes yet, not if she's going to stay, and instead reaches for the extra robe he has hanging on his clothes-hook. It's blue, soft, worn, five times too big; she feels like a little one playing fancy-dress with her father's clothes, but she doesn't care. It's warm and comfortable and smells of him. She secures her hair, tucks some loose curls and waves back in to their complicated twist.

She's suddenly nervous, realizes he has not spoken to her yet, not really, and though he had wanted her, had lain with her, she has not been quite herself tonight and he is not a man who easily accepts change, particularly the abrupt kind. He has not turned to face her yet, is still respecting her privacy, so she goes to him, hugs him from behind, buries her face against his back.

"I'm -- thank you? Well, I'm finished now."

He turns and enfolds her, laughs a little at her form swallowed in his dressing gown, kisses her face, her mouth. There is worry in his eyes, however, caution, and she has to reassure him, make this all right, but she doesn't know how. She doesn't know how to talk about what they do, what they just did, does anyone? How does she tell him that she wanted him hard, rough, coming at her with everything he had in him so she could give everything she had back, so that maybe together they could make something bigger than this old pain inside her? She fidgets, plucks at his robe, keeps her eyes downcast, mutters.

"I was so cold. I just needed to be  _warm_ , Mr. Carson.  _Truly_ warm. The winter is -- not my best time. But you know that."  _He does_ , she thinks. He's seen her work her way through countless winters, hundreds of wet, heavy, freezing days, has seen the shadows on her face, under her eyes when she can't sleep because of dreams and can't fully wake up because of the chill that permeates her. He's seen it, all right. _I needed to be warm_. It's all the explanation she can offer, and hopes that he understands. She chances a look at his face and his eyes have cleared, the clouds of doubt replaced with silent understanding, at least partial, and there it is again: that feeling of security, of trust, of taking it to the bank with him. That feeling that makes her never regret this, never feel cheated or sinful or wrong, that makes her want to work through the hard times with him instead of giving up. That feeling that she has gambled and _won,_ beat the house at its own game, left the table with all the winnings. That golden rush.

"I can stay awhile. If you'd like? We've no reason to get up particularly early in the morning?"

He smiles and drops into the armchair next to the bed and she goes to him, curls into his lap, head on his shoulder. He makes a joke about her being heavy, she threatens to kill him in his sleep for it, he draws her in close, holds her, she arranges herself as comfortably as possible for him, presses gentle kisses to his face. Her body is soft and drowsy, warm now, and she thinks talking is maybe not what she needs, what she wants. Maybe this is the thing here, this will heal up that crack in her, buffer her from the hurt that is ages old. Carson rubs his cheek against her own, speaks in that baritone she can feel as much as hear.

"Do you want to talk about it?" He pauses, the clock ticks, clicks. "About the cold?" Her body tenses, cringes almost ( _don't want to talk, don't want to_ ), and his hands rub her, the fingers tighten down. "All right, it's all right, we don't have to, then. Just -- try to remember, I am  _on your side_." Her face crinkles a little, her eyes widen and narrow, her lips press together before she can find her voice.

"All men are not like you, Mr. Carson. Sometimes, a girl -- well. Sometimes a growing girl might, maybe, hypothetically, see the way a woman can be hurt by her man. A good woman even, a kind one. Just -- all men are not like you. That's all, really."

It's all she has for right now, it's as far as that door will open. There is so much more, but it will take time, much time, to slowly excavate this hidden room, this locked attic of her memory. The nervousness, the sharp edge pressing against her breastbone is gone now, though, she notes; she's not sure if it's the man or the telling or both that took the blade from her chest, she's just grateful it's gone. Maybe there is something to this besides friendship and sexual congress and respect, she thinks. Maybe there is some other _factor_ , some other bond at work here between the two of them. But that is a consideration for another time, because his eyes are damp against her face ( _she cannot know it, but his heart has constricted, torn, turned bloody at her pained admission_ ) and she is shushing him with her thumbs against his angry tears, wiping them away, looking at them shining on her fingertips, incredulous. A great, consuming warmth ignites in her, licks through her body, spreads through her limbs like honey and she understands what this is now, truly, with him. He has walked with her, taken of her body, her company, her food, drank with her, talked endless hours with her, and now is the spilling, the way spores are sown in fertile field -- he has spilled his sweat, his seed, his blood ( _here she touches the raw scratches on his chest, traces them gently, apologetically_ ) and now his tears for her and that is enough, she thinks, that will do, that's as good as signed and delivered, she reckons. She has bought this farm, broken this land, proved her claim, and for the rest of her life -- no matter what comes, even if they are separated, even if he leaves her -- he is where she will call home.


	22. Peeling

Tea is over and everyone is returning to the duties of the day. There's nothing special or pressing, Elsie is grateful for, because the day is misty and chilly and dark and she's having the most miserable time staying awake. Everyone is dragging, it seems; Carson had even let some inappropriate table talk slide with only a glare in the offending footman's direction. He looks tired, as well, keeps pinching the bridge of his nose.  _He has a headache_ , she thinks with a flicker of concerned annoyance. He won't have taken anything for it, of course, because he is stubborn that way; there are headache powders in her parlor and she'll fetch him one, take it to him with a cup of coffee in a few minutes. She looks up from where she is draining the last of her tea, surprised to see Thomas hovering by her arm. He gives her a curt nod, a sardonic smile.

"Care to play the rebel with me again, Mrs. Hughes?"

He has his cigarettes and matches in his hand and is obviously heading for the courtyard; she suspects his invitation isn't so much about smoking as it is about talking, his eyes are shadowed and far away. Elsie rubs her face. She could use the cold air to refresh her, so she nods and he heads to the back door. Starting to follow, she stops in her tracks when she notices Carson staring at her, disapproval and distaste written all over his face.  _Oh, for heaven's sake, what is his problem now?_  Amends that thought. She knows very well  _who_ his issue was, and why he is giving her the indignant father glare, and she isn't having any bit of it. They have been around this block already. Instead of questioning him, trying to pat him down, she pulls a face, mimics his grimace, widens her eyes sarcastically.

"Careful, Mr. Carson. Didn't your mother ever tell you it'd freeze that way?"

She flounces out, letting the back door slam behind her.

He watches her go, feels the irritation rising to match the banging in his head. Her mothering of the staff is acceptable, even admirable, for the most part, but this new-found _sympathy_ with Mr. Barrow is disturbing, bothersome. She is the housekeeper of Downton, an enviable and powerful position in the world of service, and she is showing that ( _which is his secret pride, he is as possessive and vain of her rank as he is of his own, the way she has risen without seeming to break a sweat, the way she has skillfully assumed control of this palace almost with no one noticing_ ) no respect at all. Out lollygagging with the perverted footman.  _Oh, good Christ. Underbutler_. Carson still isn't sure how she put that over on him, how she managed to sneak that by. All he remembers is that the next day Thomas has reported to him with a courteous bow, asked to begin his training under the butler's tutelage. Underbutler! To him! A man who -- Carson is hard-pressed to even  _call_ him a man. What kind of man is it that would lay with other men? He becomes lost in his own memory for a moment.  _What kind of man would prefer the embrace of muscle and bone to all of that hypnotic softness, the perfumed curves, the tender lips and white teeth and opiate mouth?_ Carson shakes his head a little. He'll never understand such unnatural behavior, not in a thousand years. His frown deepens. And he doesn't know why she does. Why she's so patient, so tolerant, so  _not_ disgusted by the impropriety of it all the way he is. They fight about it.

A flush colors his face and he looks down into his now empty teacup. He hadn't exactly been proper when she came to him those few nights ago, had he, not by any stretch of the imagination.  _(No, not proper at all, hadn't known that existed within him, hadn't known that the sting, the delicious pain of her teeth and nails and challenging eyes would turn him into that, had no idea that he would be so hard with her, so rough, had been stunned by the lust they had went at each other with; had just barely kept the last of his control, had just barely refrained from shoving her face down on his bed, taking her from behind like mating savages, his hands twisted in her hair, like he imagined barbarians of old taking their women as cities lay sacked around them, had just stopped short of that, and isn't actually sure if he's relieved or disappointed.)_ And them not married, not engaged, still in service. He bites his lip hard, shoves his cup away. Carson hates this, he hates it when she makes him feel foolish and pompous and outdated and, above all, hypocritical. He accepts being a hypocrite, he accepts that they are not legitimate in the eyes of the world around them, but what he cannot accept is her refusal to treat it differently. It  _is_ different from young maids and foolish footmen up against a storeroom wall, it  _is_ different from Ethel breaking all the rules and laying with that soldier, it  _is_ completely different from the twisted ugliness that Barrow and his ilk got up to. The fact that she insists it is not cuts him to the quick, burns to the bone, and he is angry with her. They are pure in his eyes, sacred, long-earned, overdue, and she dares to  _degrade_ it by reminding him that they are flouting the rules like all of those others.

What makes him angriest, he thinks as he rises from the table, enters the silver vault, is that there is no way to fix it, to make it legitimate. He would marry her, of course he would, but it would be a disaster for both of them. They'd be expected to leave their positions, to leave Downton, and that is out of the question. He doesn't want to leave, she doesn't. And he's almost positive she doesn't  _want_ to be married, to him or anyone else, and he can't blame her. She had  _earned_ that Mrs. in front of her name through years of backbreaking work and exquisitely trained behavior, she hadn't simply hitched up with some bounder and made a crop of children. He sheds his coat, hangs it neatly on the back of the door, ties his polishing apron around his body, dons his gloves. It's not as if she hadn't been pursued, as if her hand hadn't been sought after, and she had turned it down, pushed it away to stay on at Downton, to keep the fruits of her long labors. To remain Mrs. Hughes, to keep her identity, her name. So no, marriage is out of the question. Living together is completely off-limits, though there are them that do it; the occasional couple that surfaces in the village, obviously cohabitating without the benefits of the banns, and some of them are accepted after years of quiet living, of peaceful integration into the village life. But again, it is not possible for them, would mean leaving the estate, throwing away their lives work. So what they have now -- the occasional nights in his room, the stolen moments of the days, is the best they can expect.

He opens the tin of polish, slams it down on the sideboard. And since it is the best they can do, he bloody well expects her to show it some  _respect_.

Outside, she is perched with Thomas on one of the huge stone retaining walls, sitting companionably, her feet gently swinging an inch or two above the ground, her cardigan pulled tightly around her. Thomas is smoking and she likes the smell of it, actually, finds it to be warming, the smell of fire and ash breaking the cold air. She glances at him, then over her shoulder at the house. Casts a scornful look at the back door. If she wants to smoke a fag, she will, and it's none of  _his_ concern.

"You're going to get me hooked on these things, and then what? I'll have to listen to Mr. Carson bellowing and roaring about my filthy habits." She plucks the pack from his hand, shakes one out, places it between her lips. He scratches a match on his thumbnail and lights it for her, careful to shield it from the wind. Gives her a knowing look.

"I'd say you're used to listening to Mr. Carson's bellowing, Mrs. Hughes. You're practically married at this point." Thomas exhales a long stream toward the ground.

Elsie is careful to remain neutral, reveal nothing in her inflection, her expression. "Hardly that now, Mr. Barrow. We're more like two faithful old hunting dogs that no one has the heart to put down and so we just spend the days barking at one another." Lifts the corner of her mouth in a wry smile and inhales a slow draw of smoke. This is still brand new to her, so she coughs a bit, clears her throat, then enjoys the slow numbness that crawls through her body from the tobacco rush. Exhales, looks at the young man brooding next to her.

"And you, Mr. Barrow? How are you coming along with your underbutler training? I suspect Mr. Carson is giving you quite the education."  _And quite the difficult time,_  she adds silently. They've argued about Thomas just this morning, she and him; he accused her of tricking him into promoting Thomas, she accused him of being narrow and mean-spirited. Reminded him that they are hardly above reproach in their own personal lives, so perhaps he should be a bit more lenient where others are concerned.

"It's coming along. I can't fault Mr. Carson's knowledge on how to run a dining room or a drawing-room, certainly. His sense of humor could use a tune-up, but that's nothing new." She waits for something more, but he has fallen silent again and she sighs. The boy is so guarded, so hard to reach; she understands why, understands that his life has been one of secrets and mistrust, but it doesn't make it any easier to communicate with him. Her eyes narrow. Carson had said she was appalling, daring to compare their relationship to the sorts of pairings Mr. Barrow sought out. She drags on the cigarette again, deeper this time. It's not that she understands Thomas' predilections, tendencies, whatever one called it -- she doesn't. ( _She's never had an inkling of attraction to those of her own sex, can't understand why anyone would; for her, the contrast and difference is all part of the draw, can't really fathom wanting to touch another woman's body in that way_.) Her mind struggles as she tries to grasp the concept. Downton is a place always filled with beautiful ladies, yes, and she certainly admires them, but in the same way one admires a lovely painting or piece of sculpture. ( _One didn't want to touch it, just look upon it with appreciation_.) But that's the point, she doesn't have to understand it. Understanding things is overrated, the only understanding that counts is knowing that they're all basically the same. Just lonely. Trying  _not_ to be lonely. She bites her lip, thinks of Ethel and how lonely she must be now that she's given up her little lad to his grandparents.

That's another thing Carson does't understand, how she can be lenient with Thomas but so strict with Ethel. She had tried to explain, to outline the difference -- Ethel had crossed the class line, and that is where all the trouble began. He can't see that because of his foolish, blind worship of them upstairs, but she knows better. If she had caught Ethel with another servant, a footman, she would have merely scolded the girl, given her a good talking-to about pregnancy, reputation, but it hadn't been a footman. It had been a man of the military, a guest in the house, and that's where it all came crashing down. As much as it had shamed her to do it, as guilty as she feels, Ethel had to be the example for the rest of the girls. She had to be the cautionary tale about crossing that line, because crossing that line only ever brought heartbreak and scandal and ruin and she knew who ended up in ruin -- the women. It was never the men, particularly the men from upstairs, who would pay the price of such little flings. ( _It was bad enough that Branson had successfully made off with the youngest daughter of the house and was giving the other young servants ideas_.) Ethel had to pay for her mistake, no matter how much Elsie hates it. And so Ethel had paid, too, pregnant with a bastard child, abandoned by the feckless father. Elsie sighs again, flicks the ash from the cigarette off. It disgusts her so often, really, the world of privileged, arrogant men who find fit to use girls like Ethel and cast them off without a second thought to the life, the lives, they leave smashed behind them.

She looks at Thomas curiously, wishes she could ask him about his lifestyle, his ways, but she doesn't want to pry, to upset him, especially after they've just calmed the uproar that started with his unfortunate judgment call. He isn't the first homosexual she has known, but he is the handsomest, the most ambitious, the most able to succeed in service, and she wonders if he considered giving it up, the men. Then again, one could want to give up one's urges all she liked, it didn't mean they ever went away. She shivers a bit, has another drag from the cigarette. Her wrists are still a bit sore from the other night, still serve as lingering reminders of her shameless actions, her taunting and baiting of her man until he took her there on his bed, possessed her body with his hard, driving lust. ( _She had been lost in a frenzy of needing him, wanting him, had been tempted to push him onto his back at one point, had wanted to mount and ride him like the women of island tribes rode their men under the open sky, on beds of grass. Hadn't had the nerve, had thought it would be going too far for him, but she had wanted to, oh yes_.) So she knows about urges, and how difficult it is to give them up. Even when it would probably be safer, more sensible. Her lips tighten and she looks down at the burning cigarette between her fingers. He had gotten so angry when she pointed out his double standard, the deception of their own relationship. It's not that she is dissatisfied with how things are between them - she is  _very_ satisfied, more satisfied than she could have ever imagined -- it's that she is so tired of him judging everyone and finding them wanting. He did it to Ethel, to Thomas, to  _her_. She thought she had forgiven those hard words -  _you disappoint me, you're a woman of no standards_ \-- but she does not think now that she has. Thinks that perhaps they have simply been stored away, blackening and rotting in her heart. Maybe she had hoped their relationship would soften him, make him understand that the heart has to triumph sometimes, that sometimes rules are cruel and wrong and have to be bent or broken, but it seems it has only made him more rigid with others, less understanding. She thinks, sadly, that she is most likely a source of guilt for him, a place of shame. Pleasure, yes, and affection, and comfort, but shameful nonetheless. Elsie inhales, exhales.

"Something on your mind, Mrs. Hughes?" Thomas rolls his head to the side, observes her. He has never known her to be so silent, so darkly lost in her own thoughts. She is a woman of brisk word, gentle hand, keeping calm and carrying on, but this afternoon she is far away. He doesn't mind, he didn't particularly have anything to talk about; he just wants to keep her as an ally ( _a friend_ ), a soothing presence between himself and the butler. And she doesn't ask questions, she doesn't giggle stupidly behind her hand and look at him with wide eyes and wonder aloud what exactly it is that two men  _do_ together. She's motherly, after a fashion, older sisterly. He lights another cigarette off his first, offers it to her. She regards it, shrugs, drops her stub in his hand and takes the fresh one. He smiles a little. There's something so hilariously naughty about her when she's smoking, so endearingly sneaky. And there is something bothering her, he's spent enough time observing people from the shadows to know when a mind is occupied, troubled.

She breathes out smoke, thinks she is starting to get this hang of this. Laughs a bit; she most certainly  _cannot_ get the hang of this. It's not good for the health and it's expensive and dirty and, well, relaxing. Thinks a stolen fag or two with Thomas can't hurt anything, surely, so she shrugs, decides to enjoy it. Startles a bit when she realizes she hasn't answered his inquiry.

"Oh, this and that, Mr. Barrow. Just thinking about the way things are. And how they shouldn't necessarily  _be_ that way but sometimes there's nothing to be done about it." She squints guiltily. Who is she to be saying such things, for goodness sake he is a man who has to risk prison and death for companionship, for passion. The thing she and Carson have between them could cause trouble, most certainly, but never destruction of that magnitude. Reaches over, pats Thomas firmly on the hand as a silent rejoinder.  _But I don't have to tell you that._  Elsie forces a smile, fidgets with the cigarette in her hand. "Nothing to do but carry on, I suppose, and hope things are different for them that come after us."

Thomas looks at her sharply. There's an unusual quality in her voice, a smallness that is never there, a confusion he hasn't heard from her in all the years he's worked under her. Well, under _Carson_ , but everyone knows they are all under  _her_. Everyone knows that Carson is chained to her hip like one of her keys. She makes noises about respecting him and, yes, he sits at the head of the table and they're required to get his permission to take time off or go into the village, but who can miss the fact that he looks to her before making any of his decisions, particularly those regarding the understaff? Thomas hides a smirk. He knows the things that Carson says about him not being a man, but it seems to him that the butler spends his days attached to the skirts of a woman.  _Or under her skirts_. He's long suspected that there is something between them, or was in years gone by, but he doesn't allow his mind to linger there for long. He doesn't care if there was, or is, he just wishes it would take some of the lash out of the old man's tongue. If she were Sarah, he would say as much to her, tell her to give Carson a romp on the days before he has to train under him, but she's not Sarah and he would not offend her in that way, and so he says nothing, only nudges her with his elbow. A grudging touch of solidarity. He sighs, nudges her again.

"Time we were getting on with the day, else himself will be down on us like a ton of bricks." She smiles at him, takes a last drag, crushes out the cigarette against the stones. He takes the butts, collects them to dispose of later. Her eyes are a little lighter, some of the blue spark is back, and he doesn't envy old Carson if he is in fact the reason for her aggravated state. Thomas has been dressed down by Mrs. Hughes before, and he didn't relish the thought of it ever happening again; she can be maternal, yes, but that jib cut  _both_ ways. He offers her his hand and she slips down from the wall, brushes her dress off, and they head back into the bustling warmth of the house.

Carson is working steadily, silently, alone in the silver vault, sleeves rolled up. He polishes the flatware methodically, thoroughly, sorts it by pattern and size and occasion. He lifts his head from his work when he hears them come back in, hears the low conversation between them. She is there then, appearing in the doorway ( _she always knows exactly where he is_ ) to greet him, to ask about his headache. He does have a headache and it's raging now, he admits as much, and her fingertips are on his brow, pressing gently, cooling the tight skin, scolding him quietly for not resting enough, not taking care of himself. It relaxes some under her nimble fingers, smooths out a little, and he dips his face to press a furtive kiss to the top of her head. _Smoke._ Her hair smells of lemons as it always does, but it's overcoated with a wreath of tobacco smoke.  _Gods damn it_. She has been smoking again with Barrow even though they have already had this fight, already had this disagreement, already dealt with this. After that monster of a row, he was sure she had understood him, was sure she would acquiesce to his authority. But she hasn't. He snaps his head up as she heads back out into the hallway, calling something over her shoulder about getting a headache powder from her rooms, coffee, and he strips off his gloves, steps into the doorway. If she won't look after her own self, he will do it for her and hang the consequences. Thomas is sitting at the table, reading the paper,  _slacking off._

"Mr. Barrow. A word. Now."

Thomas is surprised but does not protest, follows him into the silver room, where Carson shuts the door hard. He turns to face the younger man and his eyes are thunderous; his voice is filled with restrained anger. "Mr. Barrow, I'm going to say this one time and one time only. I am  _informing_ you as your superior that you are to stay clear of Mrs. Hughes. There is no reason for you to seek her company; she is the housekeeper and in charge of the maids. There is no reason that a footman or a valet or  _any_ of the male staff should ever need to interact with her. That is why  _I_  exist." Thomas looks at him coolly, contemplates his words, answers him with a soft rebuttal, a smirking comeback.

"I'm not sure what brought this on, but you obviously know that I am no danger to her _virtue,_  as it were. You, on the other hand, Mr. Carson, you see fit to spend quite a lot of time  _interacting_ with her." With an arch look, he opens the door, wanders back into the kitchen where she is pouring coffee into a thick, white mug, carefully mixing a curative powder into the drink. Thomas brushes past her, pauses long enough to fill her in, speaks quickly, under his breath. "I've been warned off of you, Mrs. Hughes, quite sternly. I think  _someone_ may be jealous." He says nothing more, holds his hands up innocently ( _I don't know, don't ask me, he's cracked, you deal with it_ ), shrugs, goes about his own business of checking the menus for dinner. Thomas is amused by the whole thing, really, what on earth was Carson concerned about? He is hardly going to rape her in the stable like the plot of some tawdry novel. Shrugs again. _Everyone in this house is insane_ , he thinks, and sets to carefully copying the menus written in Carson's flawless copperplate.

His position asserted, Carson has gone back to his task at hand when the door bumps open and she enters, carrying a steaming cup, which she places on the sideboard for him. "Here, drink it, it'll take care of that headache. What on earth is Mr. Barrow on about? Something about you warning him off me? What have you done?" Confusion is written across her face and he is suddenly panicked, tempted to lie, wants to say Barrow made it all up ( _why did he do that, she's going to be angry, so angry with him, angry enough to go away from him, to stay away this time_ ) but the boy is sitting in there, right in the kitchen, and he knows he cannot. He pulls himself up to full height and glares down at her. Perhaps he can bluster his way through, bend her to his will long enough to divert attention away from it all. The door is ajar, so he pushes it closed until it clicks, the snapping like a muted shot in the room. Pulls off his gloves.

"Indeed, I told Mr. Barrow that you have a reputation to uphold, a hard-earned reputation in this house, in this community, and he does not need to be seen cozying up to you. His own... _honor_... is not my concern but yours is, and it's not likely to stay untarnished if he keeps inviting you out to the courtyard to mingle and  _smoke_ , Mrs. Hughes. I saw fit to have a word with him; after all, he is my charge and my responsibility."  _There_ , he thinks. He has managed to keep her own behavior ( _her own misbehavior_ ) out of the equation entirely, has couched it in terms of position, hierarchy, responsibility. She will not like it but she cannot take it personally.  _Oh gods damn it_ , he thinks desperately as the enraged flush rises in her cheeks, as her eyes narrow, her hands flex into claws,  _don't, just let it go, I just care about everything you've worked for, even if you don't; I just don't ever want to give anyone the chance to cast aspersions on your name, just bloody see that for once, overlook the bad wrapping job and see the gift, for Christ's sake, woman._

He went behind her back, over her head, and told someone to stay away from her - like she is an errant daughter, a rebellious child, a stupid, sluttish  _milkmaid_. She doesn't even know what to say to him; she is so angry her hands are shaking, her spine is chilled, she wants to turn and leave but she can't ( _had promised she would not, had promised to stay now and see it through, had swore not to shutter her heart against him_ ) and she doesn't know what else to do. Leaving has always been her way, has always been how she collects herself, alchemizes the red-hot anger into ice, but now she has to stay. The sad thought flits across her mind that leaving is the one gift her poor wrecked mother had been able to give her daughters --  _get out of here, get away, don't ever let a man treat you like this, no matter what you do._  This is not the time to explore that dark space, however, now is the time to deal with him, and his assumptions, his presumptions, his seemingly unshakable conviction that he has the right to make decisions for her. She had told him to not do this again, ever again, and yet, here they are. Can't even row about it properly because they're in the godforsaken silver vault.  _Right, then._  She won't shut him out but she can put him off, and if that hurt him, made him worried about them, then so be it. He had brought it on his own head. She answers him, finally, working very hard to not shout, to not hiss, but to keep her voice completely level, completely calm, lest she fly at him with fists.  _Damn him._

"This is hardly the appropriate place to argue your...  _ideas_ about my behavior, Mr. Carson, so I am going back to work. I would like you to set aside some time after dinner to  _discuss_ this subject, so if you will, I'll see you in --" Not in his office, gods, and not in her parlor. Certainly not in their bedrooms. She flushed. No talking seems to get done there, no matter how good the intentions.  _Where then_? He is watching her gingerly, waiting for her to finish speaking. She casts about helplessly; there is nowhere for them to go where someone won't possibly interrupt, possibly overhear, especially since she is quite sure there'll be some shouting.  _A lot of shouting_ , she thinks grimly, then she seizes on something.  _Wine cellar._ He is the only member of the staff with access to the wine cellar, and it's huge, hushed, dim, far below the ground, it has light. It will work.

"-- the wine cellar. I need you to select some bottles for the guest room bar anyway, it's low." It is no such thing, but as an excuse, it will do. He is notoriously slow at choosing wines, lovingly selecting by vintage, by vineyard, by label and color and then the thousand considerations of taste and bouquet and she doesn't know what all. It will buy them time to hash this thing out, that's the point, though right now she doesn't know what he can say, what he can  _do_ to make this better. She is  _so angry_ with him.

He breathes out, exhales in a long, low sigh. She wants to talk about it, wants to talk with him in private, so it will be all right. He will make it all right. She's angry with him, yes, but she has not left him in that desolate winter of being locked out of her presence. Anything else he can deal with. They'll meet in the wine cellar, he'll explain himself. Will make her understand what he really meant, why he cares so much about what people think of her. She is standing there, still, waiting for his reply and his heart thuds painfully, skips dully at the unhappiness on her face, the miserable eyes.  _Gods, I didn't mean --_  Helplessly, he lifts his hands, grasps her shoulders ( _so tight, so tense, so knotted_ ), rubs hard, tries to will her to relax. Her lashes flick upward, her gaze is remote, uninterested, cold but he isn't deterred as he presses his lips to her forehead, her cheeks. Tries to capture her mouth but she jerks her head away, denies him.

"No. We'll talk tonight. Drink your coffee, Mr. Carson."

With that, she is gone, a whirl of black skirts, the staccato of her heels, the door closing behind her. He looks at the cup she brought him, still steaming gently, still hot from the coffee press, and he wants to dash it to the floor, shatter it against the wall. Does no such thing, of course; he is a man of control, of restraint, of the stayed hand, the denied word. Lifts the cup, begins to drink the dark coffee made strange by the medicinal powder in it. Drinks, swallows. Damns himself, damns  _her_ for being so liberal with her warmth, her words, her healing hands to every stray dog that wanders in. He drinks, grimaces as he reaches the bottom where the powder has settled into a bitter sludge. She wouldn't kiss him, and that  _hurt_. Hurt more than he would have ever expected it to; she had kissed him before when angry, kissed him hard, kissed his mouth over and over with her pretty lips, held his face between her hands. Tonight, though, she has turned her face, cringed away from him. It  _hurts_. The cup is draining now, only the horrid dregs left, but he will drink it because she made it for him. Because, truly, he is glad of the small punishment of it. His lips can somehow feel the absence of the kiss she would normally have put there and _it hurts, gods._ Shudders a bit as the acrid powder burns in his mouth, irritates his throat, swallows, swallows again. Finishes the lot. Doesn't shy away. Takes his medicine, every last, painful drop.


	23. Pressure

He is sitting in the far back of the wine cellar, slumped down in the chair, elbow on the spindly writing desk there. His fingers are picking angrily at some spilled candle wax on the varnished service, scraping and scratching, his movements jerky and spasmodic to match his thoughts, his feelings. Dinner had been strained, at best, though she had made an obviously herculean effort to speak normally to him, to engage in their normal mealtime conversation; when that woman made a promise, she kept it hard, and he was grateful for that. Furious with her, yes, but grateful for her honorable way, her integrity. It's all he's been trying to  _tell her_ about this business with Barrow, been trying to  _tell her_ that a woman of her decency and innate goodness had to be careful, had to be  _watchful_ , lest those less so diminish her, drag her down. Carson jams his thumbnail under the spot of wax and winces as a sharp fragment wedges beneath his thumbnail. He had thought it would blow over, some anyway, as the day progressed, but instead he has oddly found himself getting angrier. She is so quick to assume bad intention from him, so fast to come down for a plethora of sins he had never committed. The things she said enraged him, her accusations of him having no respect for her, not recognizing her independence, not realising that she's a "grown woman." His lips thin. It had taken quite a lot of his control to not snap back at her that he was absolutely  _assured_ of her womanliness, that he has spent two nights now buried to the hilt in it. It's a shameful thought, crude, coarse, and below him, but  _gods_ she can push every button he has. A small, grudging laugh rolls through him. Push his buttons in every manner of speaking. ( _Won't admit that under all this anger is hurt, so much hurt, her face turned from him when he wanted to kiss her mouth, caress her, worship her, show her that he's sorry; they had been denied for so many years and that rejecting gesture had sent him hurtling back to before, before he had touched her, before she had come to him, before she had opened her legs so welcoming and warm and taken him inside, brought him home, crying out to him, to God, slipping into the Gaelic tongue she had left behind so many years ago. The other night was the first time she had done that and he couldn't catch it, couldn't make out exactly what she had whispered over and over against his shoulder. Had sounded like gale -- again -- Doesn't know, wouldn't be able to translate it anyway, and he had meant to ask her, but they had gotten distracted, caught up in talking afterward, holding each other there in his armchair._ )

And she had felt so right, that was the damnable thing of it all. It should have been uncomfortable, it should have been awkward; he is not a small man and easily filled the armchair alone, and she is a woman of ripe curve and strong muscle. It hadn't mattered. She had slipped onto his lap, silly and beautiful and charming in his swallowing old robe, and it was like the wooden pegs of a child's building bricks clicking into place. Her arms, legs fell just right, her head fit neatly in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. Just right. He stays lost in that lovely thought for a long moment, is interrupted by the slamming of the cellar door. His nerves are immediately frying with irritation, his muscles taut. She has not quietly sequestered them but has come raging in with crashing latch, scraping lock, stomping heels on the steps, clash of keys against rounded hip. She's out for blood ( _for sinew, for her pound of flesh_ ), his woman, and in his heart he is a little afraid, but that is not all. Her ungraceful entrance has thrown fuel onto the fire of his already hot temper, and when she has wound her way through the maze of racks and shelves to find him, his face is dark, tense. She's there ( _finally, he suspects she intentionally took her time coming down_ ), standing before him, and if he could see himself, if she could see her own face, they would know that they are twinned in this moment, perfectly matched reflections of the misunderstood intent, the mistaken word, the hasty judgment. She is pretty ( _gods damn her_ ) as always, he thinks, has changed out of her severe daytime black into the soft blue dress he likes so much ( _has no illusions she has done this for him, she has done this for her own comfort_ ), the dress with the lower neckline, the delicate red trim, the whimsical embroidery around the bust, the waist. Carson doesn't stand, simply looks up from his slouched posture, aware that it will put her on the offensive, that she will feel like a schoolgirl called in front of the headmaster, but he can't be bothered to get up after the day he's had, can't be bothered to rise for her when she is coming for his throat. He surprises them both by speaking first, his voice harsh, punitive.

"Could you have made a little more noise coming down here? If you had really put your mind to it, I'm sure all of the upstairs could have heard, as well."

Elsie's eyes widen before they narrow, her mouth drops open a bit before her lips pull back from her teeth. He has sounded the opening shot, he knows, but if they're going to row then gods damn it, let them row and have it done with. Let them bring down the rafters already, get some of this out into the open where it has to be so it can stop eating at their edges, spilling over onto all of the goodness and light and warmth they've found together.

"Oh, I apologise, Mr. Carson. I wasn't aware I was entering a church. But that's me all over, isn't it?" She's not shouting, not yet, but he suspects they both will be before this is over with. He's not sure what she means by "her all over," what she's getting at. Rakes his brain, comes up with nothing.

"And what exactly, pray tell, is that supposed to mean, Mrs. Hughes? I simply said you could have been a bit  _quieter_." He shifts in the chair, winces a bit as he realizes the shard of wax is still firmly lodged under his nail.

"Oh, we both  _know_ what it means, let's not play games. And let's not get too far from why we're here, either. If you have something to say, some excuses that you find adequate to defend your actions earlier, I would  _just love to hear them_." Elsie's voice is streaming, dripping with sarcasm, with sharp-edged meanness and he hates the sound of it, hates the flattening of the round vowels, the trilling high notes, the tumbling low notes of the beautiful accent. And now she wants to know why he did what he did with Barrow, so he will try to explain it, again, again for the hundredth time, and she won't listen again, and  _oh, for Christ's Christing sake._

Carson inhales sharply, exhales, looks at her with a level gaze, tries not to rise to the bait. "I don't need excuses. I told you earlier, I told you last month, I told you when you first started brood henning over Barrow that it was foolish and improper. You seem to forget -- on a very regular basis, I might add -- that you are the --"

She interrupts him, snatches the keys on her hip, shakes them violently in her palm before dropping them again. "The housekeeper of Downton Abbey, Mr. Carson, yes,  _yes,_ I am aware of it, I cannot forget it even for a single minute of the day. Gods, I've tried to forget it sometimes but I assure you it's never out of my mind. So if you could stop saying such a stupid, ludicrous --"

He is trying to keep his voice down, trying to remain calm, but she's doing it again, cutting him off, finishing his sentences, not letting him talk. She's faster than him, always has been, fast with the cutting jibes and the sassy remarks and the wicked rejoinder but he's not in the mood tonight to be interrupted by her. Finds himself on his feet and his voice  _is_ raising despite his efforts.

"If you would just let me finish for once, you'd see what I'm trying to say is that you hold a very important position on this staff and it is critical that no one be able to --" And she's off again, her own voice climbing the decibel ladder; while her own tones are no match for the thunder and rolling skies of his, she has the feminine counterpart in that any moment her shout can turn into an enraged scream.

"-- critical that what, that I not bring shame on this house? Yes, I know, I do know, you never seem to let anyone forget that it's our chief duty to not shame you, no matter what, someone could be dying on the doorstep and you'd tell us not to besmirch the bloody reputation of Downton, I'm so sick of --" He doesn't want to hear what she's sick of, because he's in disbelief that she can be this short-sighted, this intentionally obtuse about what he is trying to explain and if she interrupts him  _one more gods damned time_. Carson slams the heel of his hand down onto the writing desk and he is shouting now, full throttle, maximum volume, enough to make her take a step backwards.

"If you could wait for one moment, one single minute, and actually listen to what I'm trying to say instead of flinging these wild accusations about, perhaps you'd understand why I'm concerned about your actions; you have worked too hard and too long to become what you are, who you are without thoughtlessly letting it become stained by association with --" She is throwing her hands in the air, addressing an unseen omnipotent presence, crying out her frustration to the heavens.

"And here he is again, God, here he is thinking that I need a lecture about my position and my place and who I should be associating with; here he is doing the exact same thing that got us right here to begin with and he doesn't even realize it, perhaps I'm bold to ask so much of you, Lord, but could you perhaps strike this man with a bolt of intelligence? Because I can't seem to get through to him that I am a woman,  _not_ a girl, and I've long been making my own decisions -- and quite good ones,  _thank you -_ \- but he seems to have the impression that I am  _some -- sort -- of -- imbecile_." He stares at her in shock, completely baffled that she can twist his words, his meaning, into something so alien, so far from what he actually believes ( _what he knows_ ) about her. How did people do this? How did these kind of insane miscommunications happen? He's never been any kind of poet, surely, but he's been able to communicate quite clearly, he thinks, it's part of his job as a butler to be able to concisely and neatly deliver a message, pass along information. What in God's name was  _this_ cock-up, then? He's speechless, actually struck dumb.

Elsie watches him warily, cheeks red, shoulders heaving, hands shaking a little. Ah gods, but it makes him sick to see her upset, to know that he's the cause of her upset. That's  _it_ , though, that's the crux of it, he's  _not_ the cause. It's what he's been confused by and puzzling over all day, he feels as if she's blaming him for something he didn't do. Carson stares at her another moment, then closes his eyes, thinking, trying to piece it together, willing her to be silent for just a minute. He's not trying to be blameless, but her reactions are so out of proportion, so enraged, and her refusal to listen to him is so unlike her. She's the calm one, the one who always wants to hear both sides of a story, who thinks there is always something to be gained from talking about things. Today, though, the other time in his office, then, too -- she had been like a thing possessed with these horrible accusations of malice on his part, of thinking her stupid, incompetent, helpless. There's never being anything so senseless said in all of his life -- she is the opposite of all those things, the polar opposite, and everyone under the roof of this house would say so, even those who didn't particularly care for her taskmaster ways, her driving work ethic.  _Where is this all coming from?_

And then his eyes open.  _Of course_. His eyes open and all of the anger dissolves in him ( _all the anger at her, anyway, there is a great, towering rage deep in the part of his heart where he stores ancient anger about things he cannot change, events he can do nothing about, pain that simply has to be accepted_ ) and ah,  _gods_ , she will kill him for this, she will see him dead in his bed but it needs to be said, it needs to be exhumed, it needs to be unshrouded there between them so they can bury it ( _as well as they can anyway, which means for now, in a different grave perhaps, under a different marker, one they can visit together instead of what must be her terrified, solitary sojourns on her own_ ). This is the first time, he thinks, that he has ever knowingly inflicted pain on someone he cares for so much and ah, no, he could have never been a father, because he is going to have to help her rebreak this bone so it can set properly and it's turning his stomach, tearing his chest, and he knows the fastest way is the best and she doesn't want to hear what he is going to say, she is actually backing away from him, shaking her head a little against the expression on his face ( _all tenderness and grief and new understanding_ ) and now she's actually speaking, whispering, her voice small and horrified.

"Let's just leave it, Mr. Carson, leave it lie." He holds out his hand to her.

"It's not right to --"

"Leave it alone."

"You have to stop punishing me for --"

"This is about you,  _you_ and what  _you_ do, nothing else."

"It's not. It's about what you  _think_ I do and what you  _expect_ me to do and what you've already convinced yourself that I  _will_ do."

"Stop it." Carson moves closer to her, gently, so gently, so afraid of damaging her; gods, this is such rocky ground, this is such a bad scene, but he cares for her and this has to stop, one way or another, not just for them or him but for  _her_. He is partially to blame for these newly opened wounds, he knows it, and it's his responsibility to help her close them again. If he can. His hands find her waist and rest there, careful not to hold her, not to hem her in.

"I'm not him."

"Stop it."

"I'm not, dearest."

"I said  _stop_ , Mr. Carson, right now, this minute _, you stop it_."

"I'm not your father. And you're not your mother."

His head is ringing, actually  _ringing_ , he always thought that was just an expression in books, but no, his ears are filled with a rushing whine and the side of his face is on fire, burning, and stupidly for a minute he wonders if a bottle of spirits has exploded, if he's cut somehow. Raises his hand to touch his face and then he focuses on her again and she is doubled over, fingers over her mouth, staring at him as tears pour down her face, the tears are just bucketing from her eyes in  _sheets_ , he has never seen a woman cry like this, not even Lady Mary on her worst days and it occurs to him why his face is suddenly a blossom of pain on the left side ( _she has slapped him, actually slapped him in the face with an amount of force a man, a big man, would be proud of_ ). Carson covers his own mouth with his hand to hold back any sound he might make, for his heart is twisting and ripping open in his chest to see her like this and right now the rest of it, the rest of the nonsense, the disagreements, the differences in opinion and attitudes can wait.

Still going slow, he gathers her into his arms, against his body, and she doesn't fight, doesn't struggle and that breaks his heart in two all over again. He would prefer it, he thinks, if she would, if she had slapped him again even. This broken and passive acceptance is horrible in a woman so strong, so confident; it's a blasphemy and a wrongness that he will work to help set right, help to patch up, if only he can, if only she wants his help. Her tears are still flowing, fast, thick, soaking through his shirts; she is choking, actually choking, on them and she's going to be sick, he can feel her body rejecting so much shock, so he turns her a bit, eases her hands away from her face, waits for it, and yes, she is bending, retching, gagging and he soothes her, holds her firmly, rubs her back, tucks her little tendrils of hair behind her ears. Perhaps it's best, perhaps she can literally get some of the pain out of her this way, some of the anger that has been clawing at her insides. Her face is ghostly, wan, cool to the touch now, but she has stopped choking and gasping and her body sags against him. She is still silently crying, tears now slowly tracing down her face in small streams, gentle rain, but he thinks that is all right, that won't hurt her the way the other did. He thinks this, and all the time that dark part of his heart is cursing, roaring, filled with a hot, blood-drenched rage at this man, at this  _bastard_ , at this so-called father who left a greedy monster, a cruel ghost, a hellish imp chewing away in her soul for all these years.  _Gods damn you_ , he thought.  _You helped make her and that can't be denied but she's nothing of you._ That is the truth, he realizes. All of this strength and compassion and intelligence and competence in  _spite_ of it. Maybe even  _because_ of it, he does not know, only she knows that.  _She did just fine for herself, and you have no idea what you could have had and no idea what you lost and I can't wish a greater punishment on you than that._

Carson has her sitting in the chair now and he quickly finds a piece of stemware, wipes it free of dust on his jacket. Grabs the closet bottle at hand -- some kind of burgundy -- and pulls the cork, fills the glass full. She watches without speaking, holds the glass when he presses it between her hands. Looks at him when he crouches down on his heels, his hands on her knees for balance.

"Won't you drink it? Please drink it."

Guides the glass carefully up to her mouth, makes sure she doesn't drop it. Forces a swallow, two, three, down her throat. Lets her rest for a moment and he is relieved to see natural, healthy color filling in her face again. Elsie drinks again after a moment, gulping now, emptying half the glass in one go. He encourages her with little nonsense words and soft pats on her knees, her thighs, and she is pushing the glass at him now, toward his lips, and he drinks from it to appease her, to keep her calm, turns his head a bit so he can upend the glass and finish it off. When he does, she inhales a sharp, whispered cry and touches his cheek with cold fingers and now she is crying again in earnest, strangling out words of remorse, apology, regret.

"I  _hit_ you, oh gods, I  _hit_ you, I hit you in the  _face_ , Mr. Carson. I struck you in the  _face_ , I didn't mean --" He puts the glass on the desk and swiftly embraces her, pulling her up with him as he rises from his haunches. There are shudders running through her as she cries against him and he lets her; these are healthy tears, tears of natural upset and he knows nothing he says is going to stop them, though he does not care about the slap, would gladly take a few more if it would help her, anyone should be glad to take a few blows to help her after everything she has done, everything she has been through, everything she has been. It's small enough tribute to make. His hands trace pretty patterns on her upper back, her lower, her hips and bottom and never does he try to quiet her. There's no pushing the river back in when you've intentionally blown up the dam, there's just standing your ground and letting the water rush over you. She is pulling at him now, trying to pull his face down to her so she can press her lips against his cheek, mouthing tender kisses over the skin she had reddened with her hand, apologising over and again and he kisses her now, slowly, so slowly, he doesn't want her to think him untoward, taking advantage, asking for anything. He kisses her mouth with firm, strong kisses, light, feathering ones, all the while calming her with his rhythmic strokes on her body. Her hands are twisted into his shirt, hooked over his shoulders, and he moves his lips to her cheeks, her damp eyelids, tries to make her smile with silly kisses across her nose and there, there it is again, she is whispering against him without knowing it and he strains to catch the words though he cannot speak them.

"Oh, gods. Gradh agam ort."

A furrow appears in his brow. "What is it -- what are you saying? I can't speak Scots, dearest, tell me."

Elsie blinks. Blinks again. Her expression confirms to him that she indeed has been speaking, both now and when they were making love, without realizing it. A strange sad smile curves her lips and she shakes her head.

"It's just a saying, I suppose. I don't know." He doesn't believe her, no, not quite, but now is not the time to press such an unimportant question.

They stand there in the cellar as night falls around Downton, and her heart heals a little, and his does, and they are becoming something stronger, more whole together than when apart. It is a frightening thing for both of them, both of these lost, wandering souls that were dropped into a life of tending the wants and needs of others, always neglecting their own, always putting themselves second, third, last, never. This is a new state of being for these two caretakers, these two mothers ( _for he is a mother, too, yes, and Downton is his child_ ), it is a new and dangerous thing to reach out and ask, to present their hearts in their cupped hands, offer them up like fragile, battered little treasures for the examining, considering eyes of another. They are older now and this is all so new, so brand new, but perhaps it will be all right. Perhaps they are not too old yet, perhaps they can learn new tricks, perhaps. She is still murmuring in Gaelic, and his hands are telegraphing her foreign words back to her as they unconsciously and consistently draw the same two curves and single middle dip across her back, as, unbeknownst to him, his fingers follow the same lines they always follow when he is holding her and etch perfect hearts across her body.

"Tha gràdh agam ort -- ah, gods."

_I love you, I love you, I love you._


	24. Profess

"If we carry the seven here, we still get -- no, this is correct, the problem isn't on this page." She nibbles at the pencil, adds and re-adds in her head, admires how neat and pretty his rows of figures are in the ledgers. They both like maths but for entirely different reasons; he loves the orderly neatness of entering number after number, seeing them march along in military precision, while she likes the problem-solving aspect of it, the contentment that comes with knowing the right answer was there to be found if only she works at it. Her books aren't nearly as artful as his, filled as they were with scribbles here and there, jotted operations in the margins, notes between the lines, but he, on the other hand, seeks her help at least twice a month to route out the impostor in his beautiful lines and pages. Her nose scrunches as she works another addition out, checking it with his solution. He isn't helping her concentrate, she notes, as his hand is rubbing her bottom, cupping her curves there and groping gently, slowly. It probably hasn't been the best idea to lean here, elbows on his desk, hip pressed against his shoulder as she works. She sniffs. A gentleman, however, should not take liberties, even if those liberties are quite pleasing, quite nice.

"I think this should be thirteen, not twelve, and how do you honestly go through twenty-five tins of silver polish a month? You can't possibly need that --" Elsie reaches back, swats halfheartedly at his roaming fingers. "-many, for goodness sake, silver doesn't die if you don't polish it every day, you know." She glances back over her shoulder and he isn't even looking at the paper she's pointing to, his gaze is markedly fixed elsewhere, namely on her posterior that he is still tracing with his fingertips, palming in his hand, and she swats again, this time with intent. "You aren't even listening to me, Mr. Carson, I'm inclined to be offended." He laughs and her stern composure cracks; she gives him a teasing smile, looks at him from beneath her lashes. Since that night, that awful, painful night, they have been better together, some. She's not as impatient, he's not as imperious. They've had some disagreements, some hot words between the two of them, but that terrible nervousness is gone from her chest, that shaking blade has receded and she is so grateful that it was him. So grateful that it had been his arms around her, his big, solid body holding her up while she put those ghosts back to rest ( _she knows she can never exorcise them for good, she accepts that_ ). A piece of her heart is still broken for what she did there in the wine cellar, for her unpardonable lashing out, her inexcusable striking of him, but she will make it up to him by never forgiving herself for it. Never forgetting the glaring red handprint on his face, the hurt confusion in his eyes. Elsie bites her lip, lost in those thoughts, but her musing is interrupted as she realizes with amused shock that he is covertly ( _what he thinks is covertly, but then again he could never be a spy in His Majesty's service_ ) trying to slide his hand up her skirts, trying to raise it enough for him to gain access.

There's a sharp knock at the door and she jumps, bats his hand away, smooths her dress, steps away from his desk with the ledger in her hand and pretends to be engrossed.  _Gods, who is it at this hour?_ She's irritated with whoever it was on the other side of that door. Can't they have five minutes alone in their own offices without the entire British Empire needing them to sort something? A small hiss of impatience escapes his teeth and she gives him a sympathetic look, rolls her eyes to the ceiling. He straightens his cuffs, gives the command.

"Yes, come in."

The door cracks open and the cook puts her head around it, looking speculatively at them. Elsie could throw the book at her head. There is absolutely nothing that couldn't have waited until morning, and she suspects that Beryl might have knocked simply to aggravate her, to snigger in her direction, and she's torn between rage and laughter -- it's such a  _silly_ thing to do, such  _schoolgirl_ behavior. She makes a face at the cook, who pretends not to see it as she converses with Carson.

"I apologize for the bother, Mr. Carson, but I needed to know if Mary, Queen of Scots, here is going to allow me to have a sack of flour from the storeroom. I'm meant to be making tortes for tomorrow's tea but  _someone_ thinks tortes grow on  _trees_ , apparently."

Elsie ignores the hated nickname for the moment. "It can wait, surely; tortes aren't exactly a pressing emergency, Mrs. Patmore."

The two women have a silent conversation then, and he watches in fascination, knowing that something is being communicated but having no idea what. He's seen the women upstairs do this, as well, Lady Mary and Her Ladyship, in particular, and it never fails to amaze him how women are born with this shorthand, this psychic connection encoded into their DNA.

Beryl widens her eyes, raises her brows.  _What are you doing that you can't come get me some flour?_

Elsie squints, glares.  _Never you mind about what I'm doing, get out, make your tortes later._

Beryl looks at Elsie, flicks a gaze over Carson, back to Elsie.  _Oh, I see, then. Playing consort to the King, are we?_

The housekeeper shakes the ledger at her, jerks her head toward the hallway.  _Get -- out. And also? I hate you._

Beryl smirks, wiggles her open fingers in Elsie's direction.  _If you'd give me the keys, I wouldn't have to interrupt your little love scene here._

Elsie looks scornful, clutches the keys to her body.  _You'll get these keys when I'm dead and not a day sooner._

The cook crosses her arms, leans in the doorway _. I can stay here all night. I've nothing waiting for me but a piecrust and a pint. Matter of fact, I think I will stay here, right here, this doorway is quite comfo --_

Elsie stomps across the room, shoves her into the hallway. Unhooks the storeroom key from her hip and slaps it into Beryl's hand, hisses in her ear. "Do not make me regret this."

She crows with triumph and dances down the hall, stopping long enough to give Elsie a last parting shot, a wiggle of eyebrows and a pursed mouth.  _I'm done here; go and get your kisses, Miss Hotsy Totsy._  Points at her sternly. _And we'll talk about this later, every detail._

 _Honestly, it's enough to make a woman give up on friends_ , Elsie fumes, as she closes the door and turns back to him. Wishes with all her might that she could lock it, but no single woman stays behind a locked door with a man, not ever; if they are discovered in a room with the door locked they'll be standing in front of their employers before you could say sixpence.  _Bah_. He's watching her with amusement, sitting back in his chair, slowly swiveling from side to side.

"You! You were not meant to be... doing  _that_.  _You_ are meant to be helping me find where you went wrong in these  _books_ , Mr. Carson." Elsie flounces back over to the desk, resumes her leaning pose from earlier, opens the ledger back to where they left off. He uses ink in his books instead of pencil, which is ridiculous but also completely expected with him, completely typical because he never expects to make a mistake.

"I am helping you, Mrs. Hughes, I'm attempting to ensure your relaxation while you carry on with the arithmetic. You're better at it anyway, you know that." He has shifted his chair over a few inches so he's more behind her than beside now, and is touching her with both hands, his palms molding her hips beneath the silky fabric of her skirts. He adjusts his legs so his knees are on either side of her body and she closes her eyes for a long moment.

They really can't start doing this, they can't start being careless, foolish; it had only been Beryl this time, and she had knocked, but the next time it could be someone bursting in with an emergency, or dim little Daisy shrieking for Mr. Carson to come kill a spider. She doesn't  _want_ to put him off, though, she doesn't  _want_ to be practical right now. She's practical every waking moment of every day; after all, she has been with him at night exactly twice, and only because the moon was right on those evenings, and they get twenty minutes, maybe a whole luxurious half-hour alone during the daytime. Elsie knows they have to be circumspect, restrained, careful, but not just  _this_ minute. Not right  _this_ moment. She gives him another flirting smile over her shoulder and slowly eases her body down, just barely perching on his lap, most of her weight still forward on her toes, her forearms on the desktop.

"You're very good at ensuring my relaxation, you know. Though you're very  _bad_ at helping me with accounting." His breathing has changed a little now that he has a lapful of her hips and bottom, now that she is lightly sitting directly on his groin. It'll be torment for both of them -- impossible for them to be together tonight, the house is too unsettled with late-night cooking going on, floors being mopped after the recent pouring storms -- but torment is sometimes sweet when it's his.  _Especially_  when it's his. It will be torture for her as well, of course, but she's willing to pay the price.  _Ah, why not? A little pain is good for the character, a little unfulfilled wanting teaches us denial._ Her face is lit evilly with a little bad-hearted smile as she stares down at the books that she still hasn't sorted out.

"But then, perhaps we can work on your maths, Mr. Carson, what do you think?" His hands are on her waist now, his thumbs rubbing her lower back with deep, firm strokes. Her face flushes at the thought of deep, hard strokes in other places on her body, and that little wicked seed sprouts inside her.

"I suppose so, can't hurt to have a better grip on numbers, not with all that we deal with here." His reply is absentminded, vague, and so she gives him his first lesson: one must always pay close attention when she is speaking. She pushes down, rocks gently against him, is rewarded with a sharp inhalation, a tightening of his fingers.  _Well done,_ she thinks _, you're attending your lesson now._

"Let's start with something quite simple, let's see where you stand, as it were. What is one plus one, Mr. Carson?" She lifts herself a bit, breaks the contact between their bodies and delights in his disappointed rumble. She repeats her question firmly, tells him to give his answer.

"It's two, Mrs. Hughes, even a simple boy knows that much."

"Very good, my lovely man." She rewards him then by dropping back down, arching strongly, grinding for long, hard moments of delicious pressure, delicious friction. He returns the motion, pushing up against her, and a tiny moan escapes her. Well, she had known this wouldn't be a one-way lesson, hadn't she?  _The best teachers always learn from their pupils, anyway_ , she thinks, and her smile widens as he snakes his arms around her to grasp her breasts, curses at how her corset keeps him from really feeling the fecund curves. He whispers against the nape of her neck and she's laughing now at his urgency, at his desire, with a heady rush, with power, with such fondness.

"Just -- please -- lift your dress. If you let me pull up your skirts, we can --" He's bunching the fabric in his hands, trying to expose her lower body as she replies through merciless peals of low laughter.

"We can what, Mr. Carson? Lifting my dress won't do much when there's my underskirt, and my garters, and my underclothes. You do realize that I don't wander about Downton with no underclothes on, don't you?" Elsie leans back against his chest, twists her neck so she can look up at him, steals a hot, frustrated kiss from his mouth. Truth be told, the soft muslin underwear she wore had an open crotch, like all ladies' underwear did, but that was not something he needed to know. If he knew that, he'd be twice as hard against her right now and then she'd be lost to her own desires, she'd be opening his trousers herself.

 _That's enough, Elsie Hughes, get off of that man now while you still can. Any more and you'll be pulling that dress up, underclothes or no._ With a sigh of regret, she stands, puts his hands away gently, straightens her gown. Carson has dropped his head back, staring at the ceiling with a look of oppressed misery and she can't help her smile, can't help but to circle behind his chair and lean over, kiss his forehead, his nose, his mouth, before pushing him upright and returning to sit on the edge of his desk. He catches her hand in his and kisses it, looks at her wistfully.

"Soon?"

"The minute we can, you know that, and not a minute later."

He nods, because he does know that, she has made it clear. He knows that she longs for him in the night as he does her, that her bed is now second-best, a grudging consolation prize when she gets into it alone, just as his is a painful reminder. She cannot know it, but he has not let the maids change his pillowslip since she was last with him, has tried to hang on to the smell of her hair for as long as possible. Has kept it to lay his cheek against at night when it's cold and the hours are long and the dark is dull and lifeless. She frees her fingers, strokes his face tenderly, lovingly.

"The books, then, let's see to them properly."

Elsie pulls the other chair around and sits, tugs the pad and the pencil and the ledgers toward her and begins working out the math as he reads off numbers to her. They work together in the soft yellow light of his desk lamp, studiously, seriously, checking and rechecking methodically. They are proper, above reproach, without fault, sitting at least ten inches apart, a foot even. If their fingers sometimes seek each other out, mingle, kiss and dart and embrace, wind around each other ( _like the night Lady Sybil died, they both think, both unaware the other is thinking it, the first night they ever held hands, the first time their fingers had done this graceful, subconscious ballet_ ); if that happens, are they to blame? Are they to blame if their hands dip and twist and explore the heartlines, the fingerprints, the small, delicate veins; if their hands become maps, leading them in the right direction to figure out this love that they haven't spoken of ( _only in foreign words, only in heart-shaped touches_ ); are they so bad, so wrong if their wrists press together, pulse to pulse, as if they are trying to meld the pumping of their blood into one breathing entity? She doesn't think so, he thinks not.

So they work, they toil, they labor, they endeavor in the low golden light, bent over his straight lines of figures, her curly blocks of numbers, and they built something out of the two - lay the foundation for a brick house with beautiful windows, a stone fortress with warm beds, a silver cup filled with nourishing broth. Something is being built, something, even if they can't name it yet, even if it doesn't have rings or banns or even a room of their own, something is growing there, lush and strong and unable to be denied; something beautiful is taking root in the small garden between their hands.


	25. Panorama

He looks up when his door opens, still swallowing the last of his tea. It's odd, he reflects, she has taken to not knocking at all when she enters his office, and it gives him the queerest feeling -- not annoyance, or concern, but something he can't name, something strangely pleasant. Had mentioned it to her the other day and she arched a brow at him over her ( _second or third_ ) glass of wine, smirked, murmured something about how he'd know  _all about_ sudden entrances and he had turned beet red, stuttered, changed the subject immediately. She's been doing that, too, whispering little racy comments to him as they pass in the halls, making sure to press her bottom against his front if they have to navigate a doorway at the same time. It's all improper, terribly so, and he can't really understand it; he hadn't been this way even as a lad, a young man hot-blooded with youth and foolishness. It isn't so much the physical fact of her ( _though she is delicious, nourishing, so desirable with her unpainted, fresh-scrubbed beauty_ ), there's something about the woman herself. He finds himself unable to scold her for the risks, the chances, particularly when he has participated in the little flirtations wholeheartedly.  _Good god,_ he thinks _, I ask her to check my bookwork and I end up trying to get my hands in her knickers. Not just that, either._ Gazes at her for a long moment.  _Not just that, I would have had her right here in this chair, over this desk, if she'd taken her skirts up for me_. Carson inhales, exhales, focuses on what she's saying, something about the baby, the nanny.

"So I told her to rest and that I could see to it. I'm tired of being cooped up and could do with the fresh air. Are you coming along, then?" She looks at him expectantly, and only now does he realize she's wearing her coat, her gloves, has a pretty tartan scarf around her hair and neck. Inviting him somewhere, obviously, and he apologizes.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes, I was lost in thought there for a moment. Where are you headed, exactly?"

"Out? With the child? Her nurse has a terrible headache and I thought since we've no guests for dinner tonight, there's a bit of spare time, so I'm going to take her out for her air. Will you go with us?" Elsie is shifting her weight from heel to toe, impatient for his answer, and Carson looks around his office. He should really stay and get ahead of some work, should check over the larder and the wine cellar ( _the wine cellar, where he had helped her slay a dragon, where a tiny spot of pride was born in his heart the night he held her there, pride of place, pride to be the one she would hold onto, the pride a man has when his strength has served his woman well_ ), but here she was and there was the baby, asleep in the pram behind her, and how often did they get time alone? He's barely seen her all day, so balls if he'll pass up this chance for fifteen minutes, twenty without someone shouting for either of them.

"I will, yes; is she wrapped warmly enough?" He stands and takes his heavy wool coat from the rack, pulls it on, belts it. Puts on his gloves. Chuckles a little at her impertinent answer floating back over her shoulder, as she has turned to the pram and is busily tucking blankets and quilts down.

"No, I thought it best to dress her in cheesecloth and one of my stockings, Mr. Carson; it's how we do in Scotland, makes for hardy children." There is less sting, almost none at all, in her voice now when she volleys these snappy comebacks to him, less frustration, less exasperation and impatience with him. Their new understanding has smoothed some of the static between them ( _not all, for that's half the attraction, isn't it, the dark crash of storms between the long periods of candlelight_ ), taken the sharpest edges out of their equation; he is grateful for that, thinks she is, as well. When she is satisfied that the baby is well-guarded against the cold air, they set off together, decide to take the long path around the flower gardens, though there is little to see this time of year; the glorious blooms and showy, impressive trees are mostly naked, cold, but the landscape is pretty in its ravaged way. He wonders if he should insist on pushing the baby, if it's the same as carrying parcels or opening doors, he's not sure. It's just that no one does things for her, and as of late he has been a bit resentful at how quickly the men upstairs jump to the attention of their ladies, how the men downstairs are expected to do the same; it's not that he doesn't think Her Ladyship and the girls deserve it, he does, it's that Elsie deserves it, as well. James had been slow to rise the other night at dinner when she came in a few minutes late and that's a rule he wouldn't be breaking again. He glances at the baby, who seems to be content, warm and asleep, a little pudding of a thing all tucked in among yellow blankets and embroidered duvets. Elsie had stepped in to defend the boy, of course, saying that she hardly expected or wanted people to stop eating their dinners and stand because she'd not seen fit to arrive on time, and he let it rest for the moment, said no more; afterwards, though, after the meal was done, he'd called James into his office and nearly torn the head off him.  _She is not only your superior, the other head of this household, but she is a lady and you will stand when she enters a room the same way you'd stand for any of the ladies upstairs. We don't have different standards down here, James; down here, ladies are treated as such and do not need a title to command the respectful manners of a gentleman._  Had glared at the boy to make his point and then thrown him out, told him to go find something resembling work to do.

"Sixpence for your thoughts, Mr. Carson." He glances at her, smiles.

"I thought they were only worth a penny, Mrs. Hughes, you've overpaid."

"Not for yours; you've always been posher than most, haven't you?"

They walk along companionably, as close as they've always walked, arms brushing, steps and strides in perfect unison. The baby sleeps on, and Carson wonders about her, wonders what a motherless life will be like for the girl. She will have women enough, he knows, aunts and a grandmother and Elsie, who along with Lady Mary, ( _Lady Mary whom she does not like, Lady Mary who resembles her strongly in temperament and personality and is it any wonder he cares so much for both of them, no_ ) is the dominant female personality in the house since the Dowager moved into the separate dwelling. Then again, he's not sure about Elsie, she may want nothing to do with the child. She hadn't been particularly soft-hearted toward the girls in their younger years, but she hadn't been there when they were very small, just toddling along. He thinks she's not one for coddling and handing out sweeties, more likely the one to patch up cut knees and break up squabbles with a sharp smack and a stern word. The wind is cold and he reaches over, snugs her scarf around her face a little better, realizes he never answered her question.

"I'd owe you five pence back, I'm afraid, just thinking about this one, and how it's a hard world to be in with no mother." He sighs, burrows his hands deep into the pockets of his coats. The grey day is all around them, all chilly breeze and scuttling, dry leaves, damp, dead lawns and slowly rolling skies. The sun is even grey, milky and without heat, but he is happy to be here, he is content to walk alongside her as she pushes the pram. Her reply is gentle but definite and he is sad for it, hates that she has seen such grief.

"It's a hard world with or without a mother, Mr. Carson." She stops walking after awhile and gestures for him to hold the pram still while she checks the baby, and he watches keenly as she dips her hand under her scarf, under the neckline of her coat, her dress, between her breasts, even he believes under her corset, and pulls out a thin, sheer handkerchief. Watches without comment as she lays it lightly over the baby's face for a few moments, careful to keep it tented up over the nose and mouth. He sees then, what she's doing, warming the baby's face and breath at the same time, briefly encapsulating her in a tiny tent so her own warm expiration will heat the air around her. Gently, carefully, she slips her fingers under the cloth to touch the cheeks, and satisfied they are warm enough now, she removes the small square and tucks it back in its secret place. The baby doesn't even stir, so light and delicate was the touch of her hand, the wisp of material. He knows the heat and smooth softness of the valley between her breasts, knows that the cloth smells of her soap and her skin, and his heart fills with something painfully sweet at the little mothering ritual, the bit of womanly caretaking. Feels the need to say something, but he never has the words to define these emotions she stirs in him. Tries anyway as she checks the edges of the blankets, makes sure there are no gaps for cold air to worm into. He helps her, takes the chance to stroke the tiny face with one knuckle, smile at the peaceful bundle.

"That's clever, what you did -- lovely, really. I sometimes think women are given a manual that we don't get." Fumbling, stupid words, but he's not embarrassed anymore, he's not worried about how he sounds, only that she hears him. She retakes the pram and they set off again, and she smiles.

"No, I'm afraid not. Things would be a sight easier if we did. I will say, though, there are certain things we're expected to just pick up that men don't have to concern themselves with." Sniffs, adds a pert qualifier to that sentence. "Can't be bothered to concern themselves with." They walk on and he realizes he should take the pram, he's rather stupid, of course he should. If he takes the baby, she can take his arm, allowing them to steal a bit of closeness while they walk. He lays his hand over hers, tugs at it.

"Here, let me. You've pushed long enough." She stops, looks at him out of the side of her eye, fusses a bit.

"Well, carefully, then. Watch where you're going, and not too quickly, and see that you don't jar her." Carson nods, takes her place, but before setting off, he bends to place a small kiss at the corner of her mouth, to tuck her hand in the bend of his elbow, is rewarded with a pretty curve of lip, a press of smooth cheek to his own rougher one.

"Ulterior motive, Mr. Carson, I see what you did there." They wind through the windblown grounds, noting how the rose bushes are in need of cutting back, how the ornamental trees could use shaping. He wonders about her again, wonders if she regrets not having her own children, not walking her own baby beneath the autumn skies. Decides he's allowed to ask such things now, surely, for he wants to know, wants to know many things that he doesn't, and believes it's time to start working on that list.

"Tell me, did you ever want a family? Children, specifically, I suppose? In some ways I can see it for you and in other ways I think you would have loathed it, can't quite make up my mind." She thinks for a while as they crunch along over leaf and pebble, her fingers softly kneading his arm. Her answer, when it comes, sounds hesitant, uncertain, which is very peculiar for her, his girl of grit and grindstone.

"No, I don't  _think_ I did. I suppose, in many ways, it must be lovely to have them, to watch them grow, but it's so easy to fail them, isn't it? So easy to ruin them, it seems. And I used to think it would be a comfort to have children in old age, but there's no guarantee; poor Lady Sybil taught us that, if anything." She rubs a gloved hand over her face to warm her cheeks, her nose. "And then this one here, there's always that fear, too -- that something would happen and you'd leave them alone in the world with no one to care for them. This one is lucky, Mr. Carson,  _so very lucky_. We all lament about how hard it is for her, how awful, and it is awful, but think about the ones who've got no one. Think about how frightened poor Ethel must've been, knowing that Charlie would be alone if some harm would come to her. I imagine that's one of the reasons she decided to give him up." Elsie shakes her head, her voice growing more definite. "No, I don't think I wanted them, but what about yourself? Do you regret not marrying some nice woman and driving her to distraction with a bunch of big rowdy boys and a gang of lasses that you'd have surely spoiled?" She grins, and he knows she is referring to his affection for Mary and his refusal to tolerate any criticism of her.

They pass the garden center, where the spring tea parties and cocktail parties and picnic gatherings are held, and he thinks about his answer, thinks about how he has to give her an answer this time. She had asked him once before ( _did you ever think of going another way did you ever want a wife did you ever_ ) and he had frozen, evaded her, served the query back without so much as a word of his thoughts. He didn't understand his thoughts at the time, they were all a rush of images that didn't make sense ( _her blue dress her keys two wine glasses her mouth when she laughed_ ) but he understands now, maybe. A little. But what does he say? Downton has been his wife and she is now his mistress, and sometimes ( _yes sometimes when he's staring at the ceiling in the black of his room, when the desire to have her body next to him is crippling, painful_ ) he wonders if the two might not change places, if brick and mortar might not finally play second fiddle to skin and bone, curve and muscle, lip and teeth and shining, shimmering blue eyes. But she is looking at him, tickling his arm with her fingertips, and he must answer.

"I think I had the children well enough, really; watching the young ladies grow up, well. Not a father but fairly close, wouldn't you say? Got to see the first dances and the first grown-up party dresses and the first good marks in school." He grins, a flash of white. "The first bad ones, too. And the fits and the heartbreak and all the rest. I think I got a fairly good shake at fatherhood with them." She laughs, agrees with him, tells him he is a good man to be so fond of the girls. His answer has not satisfied her, though, as he knew it wouldn't, and her voice is oddly small, plaintive, sad ( _she doesn't know it, he thinks, she doesn't know how she sounds right now, he wonders if she is pitying him, feeling sorry for him_ ).

"And what of the wife, Mr. Carson?"

They have to head back toward the house soon; they have been out long enough and it is growing colder, too cold for a sleeping baby ( _even one so warmly ensconced as she_ ) and he doesn't know what to say, how to answer because he doesn't know the answer. All he ever wanted to be was a butler, the height of service, the most important person on the staff of a grand house, but then she came along and things changed some, sometimes the daydreams of living with her invaded his work, sometimes the erotic night dreams of her naked body left him exhausted the next morning. But what is the use of looking back? He can't change any of it, he can't go back decades and take her away to Gretna Green, into the heart of Paris, across the border to Wales. But he's the one who started this, he opened the book and he should have the fortitude to bare his own pages to her as she did him. He stops then, before they get too near the windows of the big house, and pulls her around to face him. Holds her face in his hand, strokes his gloved thumb along her beautiful cheekbone. Bends his head to kiss her and she raises on her toes, responsive, willing, and their lips are tender with each other, soft, almost melancholy as they brush, gently press, lightly suck, sipping warm breath from each other's mouths.

He breaks away first but keeps her face close to his. All he can be is honest, all he can give her is what he has, all he can say is what he lives with every day, every night. His voice is raw with the cold ( _with this nakedness, this being stripped bare in front of her_ ), cracking a little.

"I do now, sometimes -- I wish I had gone another way, sometimes, with you. I sometimes wished it then, too, but I don't make a habit of wishing, my heart, because it never turns out -- I never had the nerve to wish for this, and now I have it, whatever this is -- so I try my best to leave the wishes to others who are better at it and I try to just -- I suppose I try wishing for things not to happen. I wish for you to not grow tired of us, of me -- I wish for you never to be ill, or unhappy; I wish for the nights you come to me to never end. I suppose that is how I wish."

Her lovely eyes are blurred now and he kisses the tears threatening to spill, drinks them from her lashes before they can stain her face, and gives her a last, rough kiss. It's time to take the baby in, past time, and the child sleeps on, unaware of the little world she has just been a part of, the beating hearts, the meeting minds. So little has been said, really, nothing decided, nothing discussed, not a thing changed, but they walk the rest of the way to the house with the knowledge that the winter won't be so bad this year, though the trees are stripped bare of leaf and twig and the ground is packed hard with the cold. The winter won't be so bad, not this time, not with this almost palpable softness between them, this sort of tender fire, this steadily growing light.


	26. Prophecy

Her arms wind tighter around his shoulders, his head, and she understands hazily that he is helping her stay on her feet, caught as she is ( _wedged tightly, can't escape even if she tries, which she won't, so paralyzed are her legs her arms her mind_ ) between her desk and his body, his body that has claimed her chair. This is her punishment and she'll gladly take it, gratefully accept it, her punishment for her torment of him those weeks ago there in his office, the bold, sluttish grinding of her hips against him, knowing that they couldn't be together that night, knowing that he'd just have to suffer. How long they'd have to suffer, she couldn't have known, had planned to go to him as soon as she could; it is unfortunate ( _so unfortunate, so awful, she thinks through this drugged pleasure_ ) that the days had given way to weeks of business, of preparing the family to journey abroad. Unfortunate that the staff worked from sunup until well past sundown, that they fell into their beds for short hours of sleep before waking to carry on with the packing, the arrangements, the accounting, the cleaning, the bon voyage parties and dinners and teas, and still -- still days before they finally board those trains and leave them to keep house. All these weeks and the most they have had is the stolen kiss in his office, the snatched embrace in the storehouse, the lingering touches over teapots, the meaningful look over breakfast plates. A shameful ( _shameless_ ) part of her had loved it, had  _loved_ it when he grew irritable and short with everyone, knowing what was driving his frustration, his slammed doors, his bellowing. Had teased him about it with laughing, cruel words hotly whispered against him as they passed in the hall ( _no need for that kind of behavior, Mr. Carson, you're like a penned stud horse roaring for a mate, is that what you're doing, are you calling for your mate, Mr. Carson, are you needing to mount_ ), with slow honeyed smiles, with lowered lashes, with glimpses of warm tongue slipping over pink lips. Cruel.

But now she's paying, paying dearly for her wicked ways, because she had required his help to sort out train tables and transportation between the stations for the family, to engineer all of the comings and goings and make sure they were never left stranded or without constant attendance ( _they were like babies that way, helpless children, couldn't do anything for themselves_ ) and so he had come to her office and she had known she was in for it, against the wall, about to be paid out and then some when he had entered the room, shut the door, turned the lock ( _they never lock doors when they are together during the day, not ever, it would look so very bad if discovered_ ), yanked her out of her chair, almost knocking over her teacup. She had gasped, protested ( _laughing all the while, laughing, oh she is in for it, yes, she has earned this spanking_ ), tried halfheartedly to make a break for the door, only to be pulled back, shoved against her desk. He had taken her chair, hemmed her in between his knees, informed her that there was twenty minutes until overnight guests arrived ( _Earl of something, whatever_ ).

"Twenty minutes, Mrs. Hughes, after which you must appear downstairs with me to greet them properly. Which means you are not to be mussed, or untidy, or anything other than the immaculate vision you always are for anyone arriving at this house." He was unbuttoning her dress quickly, no-nonsense, making short order of the work, pushing it off of her shoulders, baring her arms. His fingers searched around her waist, her hips, carefully probing until he found what he wanted, the bottom line of her corset, which he jerked, pulled, until her breasts spilled over the top, free of their constraint, leaving only her chemise which he carefully tore, ripping directly down the center seam, indifferent to her outraged sounds.

"That's -- you're replacing that! They don't grow on -- you're replacing that!" He nods, agreeable, tells her he will buy her five new ones if need be, but for now, he couldn't care less. Her protests trail off as he peels it away and the cool air meets her skin, hardening her nipples and he makes a sound of satisfaction, pleasure, anticipation. His hold tightens on her and suddenly her body is weak, shivering, completely exposed to his gaze; she is standing there with his arms around her midsection, her shift practically in tatters, and his eyes are dark, purposeful, unwavering; her sparks have finally lit the kindling, her bait has lured, and now she's learning ( _wonderfully, deliciously_ ) that the hunt sometimes turns, that the game can become predator instead of prey. Elsie slides her forearms around his head, strokes his hair.

"This isn't me being tidy, Mr. Carson, what on earth are you thinking? Twenty minutes isn't time enough for anything at all." He looks at her and smiles, a wicked smile that curls his mouth and her pulse thrums, her moisture begins to gather.

"Time enough, Mrs. Hughes, for me to -- collect myself. Let's say that." Without any other explanation, he had drawn her closer, pulled the chair in, locked her there and closed his mouth over her nipple.

She can do nothing now, nothing at all; she can't moan, respond, move, encourage him, all she can do is hold on as the pleasure ( _gods, the pleasure, it is like a drug, like ether, like sedative, crawling over her body, sliding into every cell, every pore, every nerve, she has never felt this before, not ever_ ) washes across her. His mouth is sucking, hard, deep, persistent; there is no art to this, no technique, just the nonstop pull and bite and lick of his teeth and tongue and lips and the slow kneading of his strong hands and her breasts are swelling in his mouth, his palms, actually tightening, throbbing with the merciless stimulation. He pulls his face away for a moment to search her eyes and is rewarded with a desperate, strangled, angry cry, with pretty fingers yanking his hair, and so he drops his head again, takes her other nipple, inflicts the same dark, terrible pleasure there and she shakes, a deep, internal shaking that is both freezing and burning at the same time. The ravishment is unbearable, it will surely kill her but then she will surely die if he stops and now it is her turn, yes, her turn to grab blindly at her skirts, yank at them, beg him with a trembling whisper.

"Please -- we can --  _right here_ , we can, have me --"

Carson smiles against her flesh, she can feel the smile, and she wants to weep, to scream with frustration as he pushes her hands away, smooths her skirts back down, denies her.

"You know we can't, now be still and don't interrupt me."

Her fists beat at his shoulders helplessly with her wanting and ( _he's doing it again, ah gods, his mouth, his mouth on her breasts, the sucking, the hard pulling that sends these skewers of need bolting through her body, down into her clitoris, bringing her wetness over and over_ ) he has no mercy, no sympathy, is paying her back in kind and then some for her cruelty, and then it's over with a last hard bite, nip, lick; he's standing with a regretful sigh, arranging her clothing, tucking the torn shift neatly away, pulling her corset back up, refastening her dress for her. Cradles her face between his hands, kisses her mouth, soothes her small whines, the tiny sounds of misery as she clings to him, waiting for her legs to find their strength again.

"Now perhaps you can take the time until our guests arrive to think about what it is to waste a chance." A last hard embrace against his body and he is pulling away, straightening his own clothing, giving himself the time he needs to calm down, collect himself.

 _What it is to waste a chance_. Oh,  _gods damn_ the man, he was feeding her own words back to her, oh, how _dare_ he? Elsie runs shaking hands over her face, takes several deep breaths. He will pay for this, indeed he will, she will see to it. Putting her through that only to leave with a completely unnecessary comment like that one.

( _Oh, and what had he put her through, only the most delirious pleasure, the most beautiful agony, and she is so wet, so ready, her body is so prepared to take his length inside of her, to join their bodies and here she stands and him just there and there's bloody guests coming to stay the night_.) And there's something else, something besides the pulsing, throbbing drive of sex and hormones and biology, something else in the way he touched her, in the way his mouth worshiped her skin, in the way her fingers combed through his hair. There is something there that she wants to expose, to undress, to bare to him the way her body had just been bared but she is afraid, she accepts this, has accepted this since that teasing, naughty day in his office but perhaps this is what she needs.

Perhaps she needs a moment just like this one, where there's no time to discuss it or second-guess it or rethink it and her courage is built and she has to do it, she has to put it on the line or its all meaningless and there's no more time for childish games of petals being pulled and _will he or won't he_  or  _shall I or shan't I_  and she's ready, finally, yes and --

"Always wondered what it's short for."

Elsie blinks. He is idly examining a letter on her desk while waiting for the physical evidence of their foreplay to pass and now he's asking her something. No idea what he's on about, she shakes her head, looks at him with confusion.

"What's what?"

"Your name. It's a diminutive, isn't it? You have a longer Christian name?"

She understands finally, through her clearing mist and swirling thoughts, what he's talking about. "Oh, yes. It's short for Elspeth, I thought you knew that." Occurs to her that he'd have no reason to know that, Glenna addresses all of her letters to Elsie Hughes, all of her ordering correspondence does, as well. Lord, no one has called her by her full name since -- she casts back, trying to remember. Can't.

Carson looks at her and she can't read his expression, she's not sure what it means, but he smiles then and she returns it, tentatively, almost shyly. This conversation about her name seems almost as intimate as what they just did against her desk there; it's a foolish thought, but it's how she feels. He's never once called her Elsie, not ever, but then again no one else in this house ever has, either. He gestures to her, urges her to come to him, and she does. His voice is soft, tender, some new something in it.

"Come kiss me then, pretty Elspeth, before we have to go face the firing squads." She does, kisses him over and over, gently, before they disentangle and head downstairs for yet another round of greeting and bowing and tending and serving.

For the rest of the night, she has a little smile, a tiny secret handful of warmth inside her that keeps her going through the endless routines and cycles. Next time, the very next time they have a minute alone together, a proper moment, she will tell him. She will lay all her cards on the table and he can choose then to pick them up or to walk away, but it's time for her to bare her heart, shed her skin, translate the hieroglyphics she has used to bind him close to her. They have lain together and touched one another and shared tears and pain and joy and tonight he called her name, said it aloud ( _come kiss me then, pretty Elspeth_ ) and he does not know it ( _she had not known it_ ) but that was the final key for her ring, the last crux that would unlock her tongue; she doesn't have to whisper it in the Old Words now, doesn't have to rely on the uncontrolled rush of orgasm to soundlessly scream it. She has always prided herself on being a hard woman, practical and strong and with little regard for nonsense, but there must be something of the Highland witch left in her after all, because if she does, if she says it, if she tells him, it will all be fine, then, forever. They cannot be parted, he cannot be taken, nothing can hurt too deeply if she chants the sacred words and draws the magick circle and places a hex all around it, locking him tightly inside where nothing can do anything to him. Her mother had told her all the old stories, the fairy stories and the superstitions and all the rest, and a part of little Elspeth that grew up on the cold shores of Argyll remembers them now, because soon ( _soon, as soon as she can, when the moon is right and the stars are cold and winter wind sighs over the trees_ ) she will take his face in her hands and look into his eyes, make him look at her, and she will tell him, over and over and over again she will say it, and then, then, they will ride the black night together.


	27. Pagan

"And so they burned her, and that's why they call it the bloody brae." She quirks a wry smile. "And that's who my mother called me after, the last woman to be burned for a witch in Scotland. She was always one for superstitions and the like, and I don't know, there was something about her that Mam liked, I think. Liked the defiance of her, that --" Her throat tightens a little. "-- that couldn't be broken out of her by, well. By life, I suppose. Hardship."

His smile soothes the twinge of pain in her heart, makes her laugh at his gentle teasing. "She must've known what she was getting when you were born then and named you aptly."

She watches him pour more wine, touches his hand when her glass is only half-full. Elsie doesn't want a fuzzy head tonight, a twisted tongue; she never wants to be altered or out of it when they spend the night together, and tonight is one of their rare nights. Not that he knows it yet, but it is. They are in her sitting room and she will soon lead him to her bedroom that he has never been in, and tonight she is going to ask him to stay there, to lie with her in her bed. It's dangerous, she knows, it's so much easier for his thunderous voice to carry through this hall filled with the high pitches of women, so much easier for his heavy tread on the floorboards to be questioned. She will have to clear the halls in the morning before he can leave, both sides, but she can do it. Her authority isn't questioned when her voice is cold enough, when enough ice drips from the burr, when blue eyes go pale with frost. Probably wrong of her to use her position in such a manner, but she can't feel guilty about it. So, yes, tonight she'll lock her door and have him in her territory; she needs the imprint of his big body on her sheets, the smell of his aftershave, the warmth of all that skin and muscle and soft hair wrapped around her. Tonight she'll take him in her bed and then they will sleep together, for the night.

They drink quietly, companionably, their chairs pushed close to one another in front of her fireplace. His fingers stray to her leg to rub her thigh with longing, with resigned yearning, and she smiles at him. "Don't be so tormented." Strokes the back of his hand with her fingertips, cherishes the knuckles and veins and landmarks. He gives her a ( _mostly, partially_ ) mock look of anguish and defeat, drains the rest of his wine.

"What else am I supposed to be, Mrs. Hughes? I go back to a cold, hard bed now without the company of my lovely lady companion; alas, to spend the wretched hours tossing and turning in the frigid, heartless night." He clutches at his heart, drops his head back against the chair. Her smile deepens at his antics and she puts her glass aside, stands, inserts her body between his knees ( _much like they were yesterday when he had her against her desk, when he punished her with the merciless lovemaking of his mouth; her breasts are still responsive even now, her nipples are tender, hypersensitive, hardening and aching with every brush of her shift, every pull of her corset, she has been in various stages of arousal all day_ ). Wraps her hands gently around his neck, slips her fingers under the high collar, caresses, slides up to hold his face, traces the lines by his mouth with her thumbs. He kisses the inside of her wrist, begs for mercy, laughing, pleading for her to go no farther.

"Oh, don't, don't send me off with --  _don't_ , you couldn't, not again. Let me take my disappointment along to bed in peace, you horrid creature, I'll be thinking of you all night anyway. There's no need for cruelty."

She shakes her head slowly. "You're not going to your room, not tonight, Mr. Carson. And don't argue, please." Her voice is crisp, brooking no defiance. "You're coming to mine, and there is where you'll stay until the morning when I clear the halls for you to go about your business in privacy." She doesn't know it, but her gaze is steely, flinty, so determined is she to have her way on this. He is scanning her face, trying to understand if she is serious, really serious, if this is something they should do, if it's something even remotely feasible. His brow creases and she pushes her palm against the line, smooths it out. "No arguments. I'll see to it all. You're going up with me -- my door is already open and there's enough reason for you to step inside my bedroom if anyone should see." Elsie nods toward a neat cardboard box on her desk. "You'll be carrying that for me."

Elsie turns, begins extinguishing lamps, glances over her shoulder at him. "Come along, then. We're getting no younger, the pair of us." He stands, holds up a hand to silence her. She sighs at his motion, knew he would have to argue, knew he would have to worry and pick at it,  _knew_ he would have to make it difficult.

"Should I get anything from my room before we retire?" Her brows arch, her mouth opens a little in complete surprise at his lack of objections; she turns a bit pink at the question, smiles shyly.

"No, you mean your dressing gown and pajamas and things?" He nods in agreement.

"What do you think is in the box?" Her face colors, burns; for all of her wanton displays and scandalous little whispers, she knows how it looks, she knows how she must seem, planning this, going into his bedroom during the day, ruthlessly assembling a packet of things he'd be likely to want during the night.  _Bold as brass and twice as cheap_ , she thinks, but she isn't sorry. Not a single bit, not a lick of it. He's taking her in his hands now, fondling the soft roundness of her upper arms, kissing her jawline. Whispers against her ear.

"I need you tonight, and if -- well, is that what you want? We don't have to, we can just -- be together. In my room, for an hour or two." His breath is warm against her neck and her breasts are hot, tingling from the pressure of his chest against her bust, the way the heavy seams of the corset are dragging against her nipples with every small motion. She grins with dark pleasure at his words ( _need, he needs her, he is warning her of his need, his desire, his lust, thinks he is warning her, and, oh my, yes, it's a gamble she is pleased to take, a dare she'd never turn down, it's that full-house royal-flush feeling again, she's leaving with all the chips_ ) and answers his lovely question, his caring, his concern.

"Age and nature are nothing in the face of a Highlands witch, Mr. Carson.  _I'll_ have  _you_ as many times as I need to be satisfied, as many ways as it takes to sate me."  _Oh, bold, bold as brass, wicked, no shame, hussy, no better than you should be._  Elsie hears the internal mother-mind and silently agrees. She's a servant, after all, no matter how high in rank she has risen, so that's right, that's exactly right, she's no better than she should be, no lady, no duchess, no dowager, nothing but a wicked bad-hearted girl from the loch. She raises a hand to his mouth, thrusts her fingertips between his lips to make her point, plunges, dips, withdraws just as suddenly. "Now let us see it done, shall we?"

He tries to bite at her fingers, to suck, glares at their abrupt retreat. Carson returns her smile then and takes the box from her desk. She locks up and leads them briskly to the sleep quarters, striding through the halls with her royal bearing, her queenly poise. He knows she is scanning, watching, checking, clearing the way for him and he affects a look of tired and dutiful indulgence, follows in her wake. She opens the dividing door, closes it behind them, nods for him to enter her room and he does, quietly, quickly, waits for her in the shadows, tense to hear if there are any voices, any footsteps. He exhales. Nothing but the sound of her locking the barrier and now she is in the room, shutting her door, locking it behind her, and the little gauntlet is run, the small onslaught faced, and they laugh quietly, holding one another, foreheads pressed together.

They are finally, finally alone and they undress each other swiftly, rapidly, doing away with the wrappings between their bodies, stripping each other bare. Her dress goes, his collar and vest, her corset, his cufflinks and studs and chain, piece after piece is removed, set aside, all the while stopping to kiss, slowly, sensually, gasping for it, biting gently, both of them breaking as the smooth motions turn jerky, rushed, frantic. Her underskirt is trod underfoot, his shirt is slung over her armchair messily. She is pushing him toward her bed, pushing him, forcing him to sit and then he has her again before she can realize it, before she can outwit him, he has her caught and his mouth is at her hard peaks and she claws at his back, rocks her pelvis against his chest, is locked in the tight embrace of his forearms around her hips and he is biting, sucking, laving with his hot, wet tongue and she doesn't think she can stand it, not after yesterday, not after spending all day with the torturous friction on her most sensitive skin. Her knees are buckling and she's moaning in her chest and telling him she can't take any more, to have mercy on her while at the same time pushing her nipple deeper into his mouth, pressing it far back against his throat, encouraging him to suckle harder and her moisture is running now ( _ah gods, she's ready, ready to have him inside, as far as he can go_ ) and she tells him as much. He releases her then, goes to rise, to turn, to lay her down and she stops him, hands against his broad chest, shakes her head, whispers. Her face is hot, so hot, and she's afraid he will reject this, will consider it unmanly, will consider it lewd or immoral, but all the same it is what she must have and so she tells him.

"No, I want you to lay down, on your back."

A rush of breath leaves him and he searches her face, tangles his hand in her hair ( _now sliding askew everywhere from the pins, a beautiful, glorious mess of curls and corkscrews and long strands falling around her_ ), kisses her hard. In a low voice, he agrees, tells her they can do that, can try it, and he pulls himself onto the bed, reclines back against her pile of blue flowered pillows, on top of her soft counterpane. Scrubs his hands over his eyes and tries to breathe normally, tries to control his body, his reactions; she knows he is letting her have it how she will and her heart fills and flows for him and that is part of it, that is why he has to trust her, has to lay down and let her do this. She kneels on the bed next to him, lowers her head, places shy kisses on his thighs, his stomach. His measured breaths are harsh now, and she steals a glance at his manhood, hard and moist from the light first fluids; she has never looked at a man there so blatantly before, has never been in this position with a man, not ever, and she is overcome by the desire, the eroticism of it. He is hard ( _for me, she thinks with a wondrous delight, I did that to him, I do that to him_ ) and his fists wrap in the bedspread when she gently, so gently, touches him with warm fingertips, rubs her fingers tentatively along him. His body is beautiful, she realizes again, in all of its height and width and breadth and age, in the burnished silver hairs of his body, the softness of his stomach and inner thighs, the heavy shaft of him in her palm. She hadn't known men's bodies could be so beautiful. Her hand squeezes lightly, experimentally, and she smiles at her reward of his grunt of pleasure, his slight jerk of hips. But this is not what she came for, not yet, no; this is not what she took him to her bed for, not just to touch him.

Carefully, she crawls up, slides her leg over his body to straddle him and he helps her, sits up a bit more at her urging. When they are positioned to her liking, he is sitting up more firmly against her headboard, she is sitting back on her heels, hovering over him, and he slides his hands around her waist, caresses her hips, her curves. Elsie leans forward, kisses him, is met with his own greedy, consuming mouth. After a few minutes, she breaks the contact and holds his face between her hands, holds him there, forces him to look at her. She is frightened now, probably more frightened than she has ever been about something  _good_ , about something  _right_ , about something  _not broken_ , but she will persist because she is, after all, of strong stock and hardy spirit.  _God, please, I don't ask you for much but let him feel it, let him have it, God, I don't whine and pule to you for every little thing the way some others do, so I'm asking you now, please let him love me._

She has to say it before he enters her, before she pushes her body down onto him; he has to know it is from her mind and her heart and not from that primal part of her that loses control when they make love, and so she gathers up her shaking courage and he is looking at her with concern now, is going to speak if she doesn't hurry, is going to interrupt and make her lose her nerve, and if Argyll taught her anything it's that sometimes you have to throw the seeds to the wind and see what took root and --

"I love you."

She has said it and now she cannot stop saying it, she has let the genie out of the bottle, the cat has slipped the bag, and she is rhapsodic with it.

"I love you, Mr. Carson. I love you, my man."

His hands clamp down as he involuntary flexes, bears down, squeezes her but she doesn't wince, doesn't flinch, simply waits for his verdict, refuses to look away and he tilts his head, kisses her with a drugged, floating kiss and his voice is hoarse and cracked against her lips and he is smiling slowly against her mouth.

"Elspeth -- tell me again, and this time say my name, please, use my name." She is laughing, shaking, with relief, with joy, with everything, she will say whatever he wants to hear, whatever he needs, because she has been judged more than adequate, found  _not wanting_ , her love has been deemed  _worthy_.

"My man, my love, I --" Elsie's voice rises in a sobbing, shocked moan as he pulls her down unexpectedly, buries himself inside her hot, wet channel. Her nails scrabble at his chest, his arms, until she finds purchase on his shoulders, behind his neck.

" _Say it_ , tell me again, use my name." She is rocking, gracelessly, erratically, frantically and gods, oh gods, this is  _everything_ , this is  _all_ , he is sheathed completely inside, their bodies are locked together, she can feel her moisture spreading over his thighs, his stomach.

" _Charles_."

He is pulling her into a hard, driving rhythm and she is trying to stifle her moans,  _trying_ to be as quiet as she can, trying to  _remember_ to be quiet but he is kissing her again, hotly, demanding, forceful.

" _Tell_ me. Use my  _name_." It comes out of her then in a moaned cry of pleasure, of love, of tenderness.

"Charles, I love you, gods, I love you, love, gods, my man, I love you." She bears down, clenches herself around him as tight as she can, rises and falls this way.

"Oh my  _gods_. Have your way with me, because I love you, I have always, gods damn it, I have  _always,_ and  _you should have known it_."

His words come out in a mixture of laughter and tears and he is helpless now under her, she can feel it, he is hers for the taking, the riding, and perhaps she  _is_ the reincarnation of that last wise woman burned for a witch in Scotland, because she is pagan tonight, naked as the way the gods made her, and she has taken her consort between her legs, laid him down and taken her pleasure of him. He is clutching at her thighs, groaning with it, and she leans forward, seals her palm over his mouth to muffle him, and there is something about that action, that domination of even his expression of pleasure, that sends her hurtling into her abyss of release, and she is arching her back and snaking her hips in beautiful, graceful gyrations; perhaps she is in league with the devils because she is a succubus now, filled as she is with this dark, shadowy ecstasy; but if she is demonic in her body, in her desire, in her primal, base wants, she is celestial in her heart, her soul, because there all is golden, all is holy, all is sacred, singing, triumphant light, and all is love, yes,  _love_.


	28. Parable

Her body is shimmering, gleaming in the dim light as she rides him, breathing ragged, hard, and he is in agony, absolute torture; he has watched her climax there on top of him, felt the hot gush of her orgasm around his sex, and she shows no sign of stopping. The strong muscles of her thighs are gripping his hips and she is rocking, lifting, dropping, lost in her pleasure; he is astounded by how beautiful she is like this, how sensual, how powerful and strong and he is also a little afraid of her. He has dreamt of it, but not even in his dreams ( _not even those dark, hot fantasies of night when he touched himself, not even then_ ) would he reach his own climax like this, not on his back, it wasn't right, it wasn't how things were done. Carson would let her have this, of course he would, would let her have anything for a little while, but it was for her indulgence only ( _oh, the lies, the bare-faced lies he will tell himself sometimes_ ) -- he would reach his own fruition on top of her, he would spill inside of her the way a man is meant to, superior, atop, mounted. It had to be that way, his concrete mind argued, because that's how it was, but his heart whispered the real truth, the real reason -- if he were to come like this, beneath her, if he were to find his release at her demand then he would be helpless, weak, enslaved to this woman and he couldn't allow that. Had to hold on to his last bastion of control. Oh,  _gods_ , she is moaning, crying for it again, her words blurred with unbridled disbelief ( _again, oh gods, Charles, I think I'm going to, oh gods, again_ ), and it is all he can do to hold on ( _especially when she says she loves him, especially when she says his name, oh when she says that he falls, he shatters in her hands_ ); he digs his fingers desperately into her flesh, knows he is bruising her, knows it has to hurt, but he has to take his mind away for a minute, push back the rushing of his body. He manages, just barely, and then he is shaking her, demanding that she get off of him, roughly, urgently. He has to be on top of her, has to be free to really drive into her, to plunge, to thrust, to do the work, the heavy lifting, the way he's  _supposed_ to.

"You've got to lay down, I need you to be --  _lay down_ , my heart, you have to."

He is shocked when she slaps his hands back, fights him, wrestles with him until his wrists are in her hands and she shoves them back against the pillow. "No, like  _this_ , I want you like  _this_ and --"

His wrists twist in her hands, he could easily break free on any other day, she's strong but still small and he is a very large man, but he feels the panic rising in him when he realises how weak she has made him ( _the panic and oh, something darker, more delicious, the feeling of coming home exactly where he wants to be_ ); he would have to exert a good deal of force, manhandle her, if he were to get free from under her.

"I can't, I'm going to -- I need --" He grinds out his frustration in one long breath. "Elspeth, I'm  _close_ and I need you to lie down so I can --" His eyes widen a bit when she tightens her grip and resumes her rocking, her gyrating; her breasts are now sliding against his chest, she takes his lips with a bruising kiss, invades his mouth with her pretty pink tongue before finishing her thought.

"And I didn't  _say_ you could yet, you will when I say, and you will  _just like this_." Her boldness, her strength, her obvious desire to dominate him tears a moan from his chest and she catches it in her mouth and he sees something akin to triumph, to winning in her bottomless blue eyes and he doesn't know what to do, he's trapped between her body and the bed and he doesn't  _want_ to be free even though he  _should_ want to be, he doesn't  _want_ to disobey her even though he  _should_ take control of this situation. He starts to understand that this is what he wants, this has been the basis of all the late-night dreams, all the tension, all the foreplay of words and arguments between them, he understands that he  _wants_ to submit, give it up, lay it down, he  _wants_ to be bound by her arms, broken under her heel. There's a great flush of mechanical shame that comes and goes before he can even linger over it, almost as if an afterthought - he knows this is not manly, not masterful, and he feels the deep flush of it color his skin, but he can't bring himself to actually feel truly bad. It wouldn't feel so right, he argues with himself, it couldn't feel this right, this correct, this natural if it were wrong.

And so he submits. He offers himself up and she takes him and has her way, and he is grateful to be her instrument of pleasure, her altar of spells, as long as she will be his witch, his stormcaller, his conjurer of magic. Tells her as much between torn inhalations and powerless dry sobs of need, between rough words of love and begging.

"Ah, gods, do it then -- I love you." He swallows against his parched throat, realizes what it is, what is making this all right for him even though everything says it shouldn't be. "I  _trust_ you, dear heart, _so do it, please just do it_."

Her fingers tighten down then and he is beautifully pinned, her mouth is on his, tender this time, nursing, healing him, gently sucking at the fullness of his lips and her rocking quickens, lengthens, and she is groaning now through her second peaking, stuttering words of pleasure and fulfillment. She is tight around him, so tight now from the long period of unaccustomed friction, the hard thrusting and orgasmic rushes, and he is shamefully begging yet again for her to let him release, to  _please_ let him, and she holds her breath, drops one of his hands so she can slide her own between them. She raises her hips and her hand moves and he is shocked by her forwardness then, her frankness as she holds his gaze and he feels her fingers there and it occurs to him exactly what she is doing, she is spreading her moisture over his sex, making it slippery again for her. When she has made his shaft wet again, she drops back down, slowly, slowly, an inch at a time, and she is constricting and releasing from her orgasm still, and her body is milking him, actually  _milking_ him for his seed and she has his hands held down again and her face is only inches from his, she is watching him, watching his eyes as she lifts and drops so exquisitely slow, and he is lost to her then, lost in the blueness of her eyes and the chocolate locks of her hair streaked with silver and the beautiful lines around her mouth and eyes, lost in her strong hands and her heavy thighs and her tight cunt and she smiles, runs her tongue over his lip, bites gently, gives him the permission he so desperately wants, needs; gives him her decree that he has pleased her suitably and now she will allow him his reward, his payment in kind for serving her well.

"Now let go, my man, let me have it."

He thinks hazily that it can't happen like this, she has to go harder, faster, but gods somehow it is happening, he is spilling inside her and it's gentle, so gentle, so excruciatingly slow and soft and calm and this has never happened to him before, it's not that urgent, fast thing that is over in a matter of seconds but this elongated release that continues on and on as she raises and drops and her smile, her soft gasp of recognition as she feels him ejaculate, her body is taking his fluid in, treasuring it, holding it, accepting it and his tears are coming now, as well, pretty silver things that catch in his lashes and sparkle there as it all comes down to this, all comes down to this one moment of her above him and him below her and their chests and hearts are pressed together and oh, gods, instead of shouting his release he is whispering it, chanting it, murmuring ( _I love you what have you done what are you doing to me I love you gods what have you done_ ) and then his body contracts, his muscles all simultaneously stretch and grip for a long, hard, frozen moment and then sweetly release and it is over.

Carson hears her sigh, hears her slide forward until she is laying on his chest, his softening length still inside her, and he wraps his arms around her, holds her, tries to warm her, it's all he can do in this drugged, beautiful place where he is floating.

They sleep, for a long, lovely time. For the first time since they have lain together, they sleep in the same bed at the same time.

Later, an hour, two, they stir, they wake slowly. He helps her slide off of him so they can stand, pull the counterpane back, the blankets. Her legs are stiff, sore, painful and he helps her keep her balance as she slides under the blankets, turns to the wall, and he pushes in behind her, molds his body to her back, pulls the covers over them. She stretches her legs, all the way down, pointing her toes, nestles against him.

They sleep, sheltered there in her soft bed, they are peaceful, silent. They do not dream.

Carson wakes after another hour, two, presses a kiss to her naked shoulder. Elsie turns in his arms, wincing at the pain in her legs. He is a large man, he knows, and she had spent so much time straddling him, thighs strained to accept him. She kisses his chin, his chest, her eyes still half-closed. He realizes they are both moist, wet from their lovemaking, knows she especially cannot sleep like that, and so he rises, patting down her small, sleepy complaints.

He whispers, strokes back her hair, asks her to point him to her bath linens, her washing things, and she gestures, sitting up a bit on her elbow, pushing at her tangled hair. A few drawers are opened and he finds what he needs, fills her face basin with water from the hot bottle, carefully moistens a cloth and cleans himself, dries himself. Takes a fresh cloth and dampens it, takes it to her. She has fallen back into a light sleep and he takes the blanket back, murmurs little soothing words as she stirs, as he carefully, gently cleans between her legs, as he pats her delicately with the hand towel, shushing her when she tries to wake, tries to thank him for his caretaking. Covers her again warmly and urges her to turn over, to turn her back to him again so he can reach the back of her head, so he can pull the hairpins that are twisting, digging; he extracts them with care, trying his best not to yank at her hair. Finally gets them all out and smooths down the locks, but there are tangles and snarls and he frowns. _She'll have a hell of a time getting those out in the morning_ , he thinks, and he looks around, looks at her dressing table, spies her hairbrush, her comb. Carson gets up, goes over and examines the two objects; he has no idea how to brush a woman's hair but it needs to be and the more he thinks about it the more he would like to, would like to see it in all of its pretty shining length. Contemplates the table for another moment, shrugs, selects the brush, a heavy wooden thing with soft bristles. It should do the job. He sits back down next to her and she is sleeping again, dozing, and he gently pulls her thick mass of hair into his hand, trying his best not to disturb her, slides it from under her head, her shoulder, makes a long gathered horsetail.  _It shouldn't be too difficult_ , he thinks, and he brushes at it gingerly, tentatively. The strands begin to straighten, to pull free of their tangles, to smooth into a long stretch of silk and she wakes, looks over her shoulder at him carefully, murmurs.

"What're doing?"

He stutters a bit, wonders if this is strange, out of the ordinary.  _Well, this is all certainly out of the ordinary, this can't be much more so_ , he thinks. "Your hair was mussed and I thought it would hurt when you have to pin it back up -- and perhaps if I tidy it?" His face reddens a bit as she smiles, reaches back to cup his cheek, to trace his face with gratitude, with tender love.

"Sweet man, foolish man. You should be sleeping after the exercise you've taken tonight, not worrying about the state of my hair, but don't stop now you've started." She turns to the wall again, pushes her hair back toward him, frees some errant pieces from under her arm. He resumes the slow brushing, the delicate untangling, lays it across the pillow lock after lock, marvels at how much of it there is, thinks it has to be so heavy all day, pinned and wrapped and twisted as she wears it.  _No wonder she gets headaches._  Elsie is still awake, he can tell by the soft regularity of her breathing. He smiles, a small, trouble-free smile ( _so rare for him, so fleeting_ ), and makes a request, one that he's wanted for days.

"Tell me a story, pretty Elspeth; tell me something from Scotland."

The room is silent for a moment except for the soft hushing of the brush through her hair as she ponders, contemplates, casts around for a story. He hopes this isn't an exercise in sadness for her, in grief; he wants to hear any story she wants to share with him, of course, but tonight he wants no shadows to linger around them, no unhappiness, no ghosts.

"M'alright, then. This is a story about a wicked milkmaid who didn't tend her work." The smile is in her voice already and his own deepens; his hands continue their loving tribute.

"There was a milkmaid, Mr. Carson, who lived in Argyll-by-the-sea; a wicked, naughty girl with dark hair and blue eyes who often found herself peeping at the local shepherd boy when he'd go to bathe in the loch." The bed shakes a little with his silent laughter and she continues, her rich voice tinged with amusement. "He was a lad of twenty and he had a habit of bathing in the loch every Friday afternoon, and he had to cross the milkmaid's pasture to get there. She took it upon herself to shirk her work one day and follow him, and what do you think she saw?"

Carson brushes a bit harder and she sighs with contentment as the brush massages, tugs, pushes and pulls. "I think she saw something she had no business looking at, the wicked girl."

"Oh, indeed, she saw herself an eyeful of shepherd lad, all tall and wide with broad shoulders and back. Sounds a bit familiar now that I think of it.  _Not_ that I'm saying this milkmaid was me, mind you. So, anyway, she saw herself a good eyeful and she liked what she saw, so she took it in her mind that she'd go bathing in the loch herself on the very next Friday." Elsie gasps a little, laughs at the hard tug on her hair, the reprimanding tone.

"You  _bad_ girl, so bad, so  _bold_." He pulls at her hair again, laughing, careful to keep his voice low, a little shocked at her admission, and if he's honest, somewhat aroused. She has always been so strong, so courageous, so brave, he thinks, never shying away, never cowering from what she wants.

"It wasn't me, Mr. Carson! She was a  _friend_ , yes, simply a lass I knew. So, as I was saying, she decided she'd go to the loch, and so she did; she went there right before he usually did, and Mr. Carson, do you know what she did, that bad, bold lass?" She flicks a look over her shoulder.

"What? Don't tell me she --"

"She did, she took off every stitch of her clothes and got into the water and waited for him -- ouch, ow!" Elsie protests, laughing, as he is firmly brandishing the brush against her bottom now, lightly stinging her through the sheet.

"Wicked, terrible,  _brazen_ girl."

"It was my  _friend_. So she swam and she bathed, all naked as the day God made her, and then --" Her voice drops seductively, throaty. "Then, when she was naked and wet and warm in the summer water --"

Carson's hand is resting on her hip and it tightens, groping, expectant.

"He never appeared for his bath. So she got out and put her dress back on and carried her milk pails home." Her voice is mournful, sad, and the mattress shakes again as he muffles his laughter against her back. The hairbrush is put aside, he carefully lays the shining ribbon of hair over her shoulder and slides under the blanket with her, still laughing. She presses her body back against his and remarks sadly.

"And you  _laugh_ , you laugh at that poor milkmaid who went to such trouble. You terrible man, I could have caught cold --" Elsie realizes too late that she has used  _I_  instead of  _she_ and gives up the ghost, knows the jig is up, and turns in his arms to kiss him and he holds her tight against him, as they drown their quiet laughter in kiss after kiss, in warm embrace.

They sleep again this way, faces pressed close together, legs and arms woven gently together. They dream now, lovely, soft dreams filled with warmth and tenderness; he dreams of a blue-eyed milkmaid, naked and beckoning in a crystalline lake, a pretty Scottish siren calling him into blue depths that he never wants to rise from again; she dreams of a shepherd, hugely tall, wide-shouldered, not a boy but a man, a man she knows, a man she loves, a man who takes her and makes her cry her pleasure to the rolling Highland skies.

They hold each other there in her bed, and they rest, and somewhere in their cloud-like dreams a milkmaid makes love to a silver-haired shepherd who sings to her afterwards in a shining golden baritone, who cradles her in his arms and sings to her of how she stole his heart away.


	29. Promise

He lifts the lid of the teapot, stirs, strains, stirs again. She has one of her bad headaches again, she had told him at dinner, was going to write a few memos and then go to bed with a cold cloth, try to sleep it off. The day has been long and draining, and she has looked miserable for most of it, strained around the eyes, a touch paler than usual. Carson hadn't had time to tend her properly, could only snatch a moment here and there to press his fingers to her temples, her neck, try to rub away some of the pain. She had smiled for him when he did, tiredly but smiled all the same,  _found_ a smile for him, he thought. She always tried to now, no matter how much she had going on, no matter how she felt, she always tried to find a smile when his gaze rested on her. Sleep it off, she had said, but he had passed her parlor door and seen the light still on under it, even at this late hour, so he finally has the time now, finally, to take her some tea, some cold water.

He hoists the tray onto one solid, balanced palm ( _years of practice, that, years of perfectly balancing loaded trays on his very fingertips, years of spinning plates expertly and never dropping a thing_ ) and takes it to her, quietly shoulders open her door, closes it behind him. It hits him like a wave, the overpowering smell of alcohol, and not wine, either, not sherry, but Scotch, the heavy stuff, the  _if I've drunk as much as it smells like I'm damn near dead_  stuff. He jerks his head around, shoving the tea-tray on a side table, and he is appalled at what he sees, shocked, frightened. She is staring at him from her chair, barefoot, bare-legged, legs crossed, slumped, slowly swiveling back and forth and she is drunk, gods, she is  _so_ far gone. Her eyes have that dull shine to them, her cheeks are red, her lips are swollen from the harsh alcohol. Her hair has slipped its neat chignon in many places, streaming down her shoulders, around her face.

"Mrs. Hughes, what --" His voice is a whisper, a hushed intake of breath.

Her voice is soft, slurred, and she sips from her drink between words. Her fingers are coldly beautiful wrapped around the rocks glass, slender, long-nailed, lethal looking ( _should have known how bad she was feeling, he thought, her nails are too long, she never lets them go long even though she could_ ), and the glass is three-fourths empty for what looks like the last of many times.

"My head doesn't hurt anymore, Mr. Carson, so don't come in here giving me _any of your self-righteous shit_."

His inhalation is a soft hiss of shock at her profanity, her casual lewdness, and he understands now that she is  _very_ drunk, very,  _very_ drunk, that this is not a good place for her to be. She is in a bad way, and he tries to think of what has caused this. Her headaches could be bad, yes, very bad, but he had never known her to drink in search of relief before, not ever ( _but then does he know her completely, he does not, does she have secrets from him, yes she does_ ) and this is new to him, he has never seen her out of control this way, not even that night when she had cried until she was sick in the cellar, not even then. What on earth is he supposed to do with her? Leave her here ( _his presence seems unwelcome, an intrusion_ ), go to his room, pray that she pulls it together before morning? Try to get her to her bedroom? To his?

"Elspeth --" He is careful to keep his voice soft, neutral, non-confrontational, but his heart is hammering away with nerves. "Are you all right? Is there -- you've drunk quite a lot here." He wants to go to her, touch her, hold her, but not like this, not when she is this dangerous, wild thing that he doesn't know how to approach. Gods, what on  _earth_ had gotten into her? What if one of the maids had found her like this, one of the  _ladies_? His eyes take in her disheveled clothes, notes that she has removed her shoes and stockings, sees them in a disgraced little heap next to the fireplace. Her skirt is hiked up around her knees where they are crossed prettily, one foot swinging gently, and she is still turning gently from side to side, twisting the chair on its swivel base. Her desk is covered with a scattered spill of envelopes, of folded papers. She takes another drink.

"I like it when you call me that, Mr. Carson. It makes me feel -- I don't know. It just makes me feel..." Takes another long swallow of the whiskey and sits her glass down, rises unsteadily from her chair. His hands automatically go out, reach to her and she grabs them, balances her swaying body, and then she crushes herself against him, hotly, aggressively, pulling at him, trying to kiss him. Carson struggles with her, trying to be gentle, trying to calm her, kisses her lightly on the lips to placate her but she grabs his neck, digs her claws in, pulls him into her syrupy, intoxicating mouth, grinds her body against his.

"Stop,  _stop_. Not like this, you don't even realize -- stop." He has her arms in a tight, painful grip now and has pushed her back some, untangled her from his body, and the look of black rage, of dark hurt shadowing her face almost takes his breath away. "Gods, it's not -- you know I'm not -- I  _want_ you, you know that, always, just not like this, not with you --" Carson searches for a word that won't aggravate this anger, this seething boiling in her eyes. "-- not feeling well." Runs his thumbs over her shoulders, massages gently, trying to telegraph his concern, his love, his caring.  _It's all right, whatever it is, don't take this out on me, I'm on your side._

Elsie studies him and her eyes are cold, blue ice, and he's desperate to extricate himself from here, to defuse this situation, because now she feels rejected and she's angry and she's drunk and he doesn't know how all of this happened; he was bringing tea to what he thought was a headache, had expected perhaps a bit of a cuddle and a cup and then sleep but now this.

"Who else?" He looks at her, confused at the question, no idea what she's on about. Her eyes narrow and there is something mean there, something that wants to bite at him.

"Who else what? What do you mean?" He rubs her arms, her shoulders, her neck and it's like she doesn't even feel his hands trying to soothe her.

"When you're gone. When --" She gestures vaguely around the room, turns away from him, takes her glass back up. "The season, when you're down there for the season, who else? The London housekeeper? Do you --" Elsie tips the glass, takes a deep swallow, grimaces at the burn. "Do you have it off with her, as well? Is she your distraction between dances?"

The pain is harsh, cold, piercing and he stares at her dully, trying to quiet the roaring in his head, trying to explain to his hotter self that she is gone, she is in her cups, she has no idea what she's saying, and it's not working. The pain is acute, terrible, and the anger is making his hands shake and his voice crack with low thunder.

"You are repulsively drunk, Mrs. Hughes, and I'm going to say goodnight now."

He turns to go but she isn't finished, she's biting now, striking like a snake, striking from some place of pain and rage he doesn't understand, hadn't expected, couldn't have foreseen.

"Well, then, if it's not, who? You're an attractive man, Mr. Carson, so attractive. You don't live a cloistered life there, I'm sure, so who? It's not me, that's for certain, I stay here like a good spinster, like a good nun, and fold sheets and wait for your  _gods damn letters_ like they're some sort of gods damn  _life raft_ that keep me --" He turns then and looks at her desk, looks at the spill of papers across it, and he realizes why it had looked so familiar -- it's his stationary, his house stationary, those are his letters to her from London. Slowly, he counts, he realizes with shock that she has kept them, there are dozens of them, perfectly opened, carefully preserved. She has been reading them tonight, rereading them, for some reason, revisiting old words and he doesn't know how to feel now, doesn't know what this is, what brought this on. Elsie is looking at him with tear-filled eyes now, pleading for something, she wants something from him and he doesn't know what it is, doesn't know how to make it right, whatever is eating at her, and she doesn't know how to tell him, obviously. Helplessly, he touches her face, her hair, with gentle, questioning fingertips. He is still angry at her horrible words, her hateful accusations, but that can wait if she can just open her mouth and tell him what she needs.

"My heart, what's brought all this on? The season is months away, I've not even thought of it, why are you --" A tear spills over, washes down his fingers, and he's so confused right now at her state but his anger is being replaced with a desire to see her better, to see her stop hurting, to see her in anything  _not pain,_ and he draws her in; she comes unwillingly but she comes, allows him to fold her against his body, to rock her ever so gently, to croon little nothing words against her ear ( _it's all right, it's all right I tell you, I'm not going anywhere, what is all this, it's all right_ ).

She whispers against his chest. "I don't want you to be with anyone else. Not anymore. I won't have it, Mr. Carson, I'm telling you now that I will not have it, I will not share you with another woman." A hard sigh escapes him and he tightens his arms. He thinks for a brief moment of telling her about those girls but he can't -- it's his own secret to keep, his own dark little locket to stow away, but if only he could -- if only he could tell her of the lonely little whores he had bought on those rare occasions, those sad, rare occasions when he hadn't been able to face an empty bed, those pretty whores that had looked like her in some way, dark-haired or blue-eyed or full busted in just a certain way. There had been nothing with the London housekeeper, nothing with the ladies maids that had occasionally made it clear they were looking for a bit of nighttime company, nothing except the occasional whore that he sent away right after with a purse full of money and a whispered apology after he had failed to look at them, refused to meet their eyes. _I'm sorry, you're just not -- I'm sorry._

Elsie twists her fingers into his shirt and her lips are hard against his body, hard and feral. "Promise me, Mr. Carson. Promise me." She curls her fingers against his chest, the pressure of those claws, the smooth ivory of her teeth. "This is mine, promise it."

He drops his face into her hair, thinking that this is probably wrong, probably blasphemous, but he thinks this is it, then, their vows. Their banns. "There's never been, Elspeth. Never been anyone else, there won't be." Suddenly, he shoves her away, shoves her up to see her face and her eyes are wild, fevered, a little frightened and his hands are gripping her soft upper arms hard enough to leave marks but if she gets her pound of flesh than by god so will he, he'll have what he's wanted and didn't think he had the right to ask.

"That jig cuts  _both_ ways, Mrs. Hughes. No more for you, either, no more whatever you get up to when I'm gone, no more gods damn  _suitors_ showing up to ask for your hand, no more. Swear it, then, right now. Do it."

She will be humiliated in the morning at her actions tonight, and probably sick as a dog after the amount of whiskey she has drunk, but something in him is darkly glad for this moment, perversely joyous over this shadowy pact he has made. It matters, this promise, matters more than a sunny I do in a shower of rice, this is born of blood and need and grit and is something she made in her pagan cauldron and he has given his word, his flesh, his bone to her and she is giving her promise through a face pouring with glittering tears ( _I swear, Mr. Carson, no one, please, don't be angry with me, I had to know_ ) and it's a hard thing, a dark thing, but they have always been a hard, dark thing, a thing of shadows and silence, of hot need and repressed want, of stone and work and toil. They kiss, surrounded by old letters and the smell of desperate drink and her perfume and his aftershave, they kiss there in her office that had always been so cold during his absence, they kiss the way they will before he leaves her again in a few months for the London season, diamond-hard, against the world, full of fealty to this slowly burning love.


	30. Perennial

"Why didn't you marry him? That's all I want to know; give me an honest answer, a real answer for once."

It's another day, and they've silently agreed to not talk about that bad night, that night of drunkenness and tears and painfully-wrenched promises; it's another day and he's the one who has been lost in old thoughts, old happenings, bubbling over with questions he hadn't dared to ask, not then. But if he hadn't dared then, he dares now; it's spoiling for a fight, most likely, but he doesn't seem to care. They've opened this Pandora's box of suppressed questions and withheld answers and stayed hands and ghostly touches and it's exploding around them now like grenades falling; they're in some misty in-between where ( _they hope_ ) others can't see but they stand trapped in a torrential downpour of long-nursed resentments and jealousies and angers that they could never explore. If the rest is there, and it is -- the tenderness, the laughter, the loving that they so long denied themselves ( _it is there in acres, in pounds, in spades, they love each other so much it makes them withdraw with it, makes them shake and hurt in the nights when they can't hold each other_ ) -- then so must this be. This chocolate box comes with its cutting, lethal edge and they aren't going to be able to ignore it, to act like the bad didn't come with the good for all these years.

Elsie yanks her soft woolen stole tighter around her shoulders, crosses her arms tightly in front of her. She resents his questions, mainly because she's answered him as best she can. She didn't marry Joe because it wasn't  _right_ , he wasn't  _right_ , she wasn't  _right_ , that's the only answer she has but it doesn't satisfy her man of perfect script and flawless ledger, no, he wants the _whys_ and  _wherefores_ and  _exactly hows_ and she can't explain it. She can't explain what she doesn't fully understand herself. She can't put into words how horrifying it would have been to her to marry that good man, that kind man, that honest man, and return to a farm, to the animals that need feeding and the constant cycle of cooking and washing and gathering and planting and the ongoing fight against the elements. It didn't matter that Joe's farm was large and thriving and he could afford to hire men to help him with the work, that she would have been able to hire in girls to help with the washing and the canning. It didn't matter. A farm was a farm and it would have been like Downton was nothing but a dream, that being hundreds of miles from Argyll never happened. He couldn't understand that she didn't love Downton for what it was, she never had, she actually hated the place in some ways for what it was; she loved Downton for what it wasn't. It wasn't cold water and chapped hands and stark winds blowing through sometimes-broken windows; it wasn't thin flocks of chicks and an apron full of grain; it wasn't heavy milk pails and the expectation that she'd be married by fourteen and twice pregnant by sixteen; it wasn't cooking endless huge, coarse meals for rough, loud men during threshing seasons. It wasn't broken dishes and muddy boots on a worn tile floor. It wasn't. That's what she loved about Downton and all of its trappings.  _It wasn't._

They're walking back to the house from the village, he's carrying her basket of shopping for her like the gentleman he always is, always will be, and she had wanted to slip away for a few minutes, somewhere, anywhere, slip away to kiss him, to embrace him, to rub her cold hands in the warmth of his many-layered suit, between vest and shirt, shirt and skin, wherever she could touch without mussing him. But he had been short with her, impatient, told her that she knew they had to get back. He had touched her cheek briefly while saying so, but a denial is a denial and she is raw with it, raw with the rejection, and he is tight-faced, irritable, and now these questions. No idea where he's getting all this from today, no idea what's eating at him, but he's like a doctor examining a bad tooth -- probing, digging, refusing to stop until he hits that screaming nerve. Elsie steals a glance at him and his face reveals nothing of his feelings, nothing of this thoughts. She wonders briefly if this is some sort of paybacks, some sort of retaliation for that night, and she's almost tempted to tell him not to bother, that he can't inflict any punishment on her that she hasn't already put on herself. For she'd been ashamed, yes, so ashamed, sick with shame and drink and pain the next morning, had refused to let him help her when he had slipped to her room to check on her, when he had wanted to hold her hair back, wipe her face, hold her drinking glass. She had sent him back to work and punished herself with the lack of him. It wasn't his job to clean the vomit from her lips, the humiliated tears from her cheeks. He had done all that he was required to do ( _not required, never required_ ) by telling the staff she had a bout of the flu, a stomach upset, and he had sent Daisy up with fresh water, with lemons, with crackers. Had spoken gently to her when she finally did appear downstairs, pale and weak and speaking in a hoarse, cringing voice. He had taken her aside and held her for a long moment in the privacy of his office, held her like a piece of precious china. There had been no recriminations, no lectures, no nothing. She had tried to apologize to him, tried to make it right, but every time she opened her mouth to speak the tears would gather in her eyes and she'd fumble hopelessly and wring her fingers and he'd hold her hands to his mouth, comforting her ( _it's all right, it's all right, I tell you, you don't have to say it, I know, I know, I know_ ).

But now this. She lifts her hand, drops it, heaves an exasperated sigh. "Mr. Carson, it just wouldn't have worked. It wasn't right for me when he asked the first time and it wasn't right when he asked the second. What else do you want me to say? He's a good man and I hope he finds a good wife, but I couldn't be that to him." Elsie doesn't know what else he wants from her, what else he needs. She's not trying to be coy, or provoke him, or make him pry information from her. She just has nothing else to offer on the subject, a subject she thought done and closed.

"I want to know." His voice is hard, angry, and she whips her head to the side to stare at him, her voice is incredulous, querying.

"Know what exactly? You knew before anyone else did. You knew practically the moment I did! He came to town, he looked me up, we walked out for the evening, he asked. I thought about it and turned him down. What is this  _about_ , Mr. Carson? Why are you even bringing this up? What do you want me to  _tell you_?" She jerks the shopping basket back, lugs it along stubbornly even though it's almost too heavy, even though it's awkward and difficult for her to handle. It's a stupid, petty display of nothingness but she feels stupid and petty and small when he jabs at her like this, when he digs, when he wants to open her up and examine all of her secret corners and pockets and little dusty beribboned boxes.  _Why can't he just leave well enough alone?_ She doesn't do this to him; she doesn't ask him about his days on the stage, doesn't ask him what he did in London during all those seasons ( _only once, she thinks, ashamed, only that one shameful sick time when it ate at her, when those letters that said everything and absolutely nothing ate at her ribs, chewed at her heart, when her head hurt so badly and the whiskey helped it and then it all fell apart - only that once, never before, never since_ ), she didn't ask if he harbored lust for Her Ladyship in his heart. She left him  _alone_. That's all she wants right now, is for him to accept what she is right this minute, right now. He's taking the basket back, forcing it out of her hand, bending her fingers back painfully to remove them.

"It's too heavy. Don't be stupid, Elspeth."

 _Elspeth_. He's called her that, off and on, since that day in her office, that day when he had kissed her breasts, tantalized her, made such tender love to her with his mouth. She likes it, she likes that it's his own name for her; no one else has called her that since her childhood, and then too it was a rarity, used by schoolteachers, neighbor women in greeting ( _little Elspeth Hughes, aren't you, Glenna's little sister, sure you are now_ ). To everyone else then and since she has been either Elsie, or Miss Hughes, then the formal and formidable  _Mrs_. Hughes. Elspeth. It makes her real again, it gives her something to hold onto during the long, dark, sometimes nightmarish grey days of the winter. An anchor to keep her from drifting completely up and away into the constant rain. She hasn't taken to his first name in the same way; she still finds it difficult, odd to call him Charles. She can call him her man, yes, without pause, without qualification, but so often he is still Mr. Carson to her. She needs him to stay Mr. Carson much of the time, because that keeps a last buffer up. It keeps her content with what they have, with what they are. It keeps her from mooning over him like a stupid cow, like a schoolgirl, like a dewy-eyed lass walking out with her first lad. She can't afford to lose sight of  _exactly_ what this is. Even if she can't define it perfectly, give it a neat and tidy name, she can treat this in the same way she treats Downton -- it's home, and it's home because of what it's  _not_. Doesn't matter what it is as much, matters what it  _isn't._ She thinks of trying to explain that to him, of trying to put that into words, and she knows it would sound insane, strange, unloving. But unless she tries, she thinks, unless she tries to talk, to let some light into these horrible dark places that she carries, it will always be this way. If they're going to forward, perhaps they have to go backwards, as well. Maybe she should tell him what he's not, and that will somehow explain to him what he is. What this is. What Joe wasn't, couldn't be.

"It wasn't right because of mud, Mr. Carson." He looks at her strangely, and she knows she sounds crazy, babbling, but she presses on grimly. He wanted to know, and so he can just take what comes. "Because I wouldn't spend the rest of my life scrubbing mud off of my kitchen floor. Because I wouldn't -- I wouldn't plant fields only to watch the frost get them." It's all mixed up, her explanations, her words, what she's trying to say, but it's all she has to work with. "Because it wouldn't have been the same but it would have, because the same stays with you, inside you, do you understand?"

He stops walking then, shifts the heavy shopping to his other hand, eases her to a stop with a pressing hand. She turns to face him, hugging her wrap tightly. It was too light, this shawl, but she loves it because it was perfectly soft, perfectly colored, a pale lavender color that shimmers against her eyes. One of the few truly beautiful things she had ever owned, had ever bought for herself, so she wears it even when it leaves her cold and wanting. She huffs another sigh, watches her breath light the air in a little frozen cloud.

"I couldn't sleep in another farmhouse. It doesn't matter how nice he made it for me, it would have been the same. And it doesn't matter how good and kind he was, is, he would have been the same, do you hear what I'm saying? It's not fair, and it's not right, but I'm fifty-seven this year and if I've learned anything about myself, it's that. Things can be the same, seem the same, even when they aren't, and I wouldn't do that to him." Carson is watching her intensely, carefully, dark eyes fixed on her face, and she can see him struggling to understand, to touch those parts of her that she keeps so well-hidden, so thickly-wrapped. Her nose scrunches a little, her face crumples briefly before smoothing back out. She's hard on him, she's  _so hard_ on him, and she knows he didn't expect this. He didn't sign up for all of this damage, all of this  _shit_ she thought was long dead and buried but seems to be crawling out of the grave lately. He reaches out. The way he holds her face never fails to sway her, to touch her, to move her so deeply. His hands are so large, and always filled with work and service and purpose, and she knows that she -- her face, her hands, her body -- is one of the few things ( _the only thing_ ) that feels this tenderness, this care. He has hands that were made to cradle infants, to fix the wings of birds, to repair butterflies, and it was just another cruel linchpin in their lives that those hands caressed, cradled, touched only cold silver, sharp glass, unyielding objects that could appreciate none of it. Until her. Until them.

"So that's why this is all right, then? I need -- why me but not him? That's what I want to know; why is this right and the other wasn't? Because you get to stay here, because nothing much changes?" He speaks quietly, almost casually, but the muscles in his jaw, his neck, slide and knot beneath the skin. His eyes dart away from her face, he's trying not to look at her, the way he always does when he's afraid of her hurting him, when he expects her to drive her heel just a little too hard, when he has doubts that his neck can bend far enough. The day is colder and she shivers, convulses, curses herself for stupidly choosing the shawl over her coat. Carson notices her pained movements, of course he does, and he's sitting down the shopping, stripping off his heavy black coat, ignoring her cries of angry protest. He drapes it around her shoulders, pulls it snug, and she is immediately swallowed, swaddled, and the cold moves away, unable as it is to get through the yards of fabric guarding her. He picks the basket up, finds her hand in the sleeve, laces his fingers through it, squeezes hard.

"It's too cold out here for any of this, Mrs. Hughes, we --" She's panicked then, he's going to say they need to go home, need to get back, and she hasn't been able to explain anything properly, hasn't been able to tell him that he's wrong, he is so wrong. It's not that, it's not that he's safe and her routine doesn't change and she doesn't lose her precious Downton, it's not that, it's  _never_ been that. It's the fact of him, it's the fact that they are the same in the heart, some - they both know what it is to want something better, to try harder, to be hungrier, to not be satisfied. They both understand wanting more, even when they're not meant to, even when they're supposed to be content with their lot. She pulls him to the side of the path, into a cluster of ornamental trees, into the little clearing between them.

"Mr. Carson, it's --" The wind is whipping up now, leaves scatter around them, whirl their little mournful dances of loss, bereft of tree or root or twig. "It's because you know me. You've always known me, even before - you - Joe doesn't know me. He didn't back then, he doesn't now. He knows I have a strong back and willing hands and that I know how to run a herd and cook a meal and raise animals to slaughter. Or did back then, anyway. He knows me the same way everyone here does - he knows I can  _do the job_. And there's no crime in that, no shame in him wanting a woman to work beside him and warm his bed at night, that's what most good men want. But you're not just a good man, Mr. Carson." She wipes away the wind-whipped strands of hair catching her in the eyes, between the lips. "You're -- you're something different. Something not just the same, and you've always known what I am, really, and that's good enough for you. You don't -- " Her voice is strangling now, choking against the horrible lump forming in her neck, but she pushes on, scrubs the rough woolen sleeve of his coat across her eyes. "I'm a woman, Mr. Carson, not just an extra pair of hands or someone quick with arithmetic that can sort out the mortgage bill. You're the only person who has wanted me for a woman in probably ever. Service strips us of everything. Manhood, womanhood, it strips us of that and we're supposed to be happy with just nothing. Eunuchs, Mr. Carson, that's what they make of us, that's what we're supposed to be. And you gave me that back the day you -- do you remember that day, after the cricket? When you -- that's why it's different."

It hasn't made any sense, she's sure of it, it's nothing but madness and she doesn't even know what's she saying, but the wind is howling now, roaring around them, and the rain will be beating down in less than an hour ( _it always follows these winds, these gales tearing through the trees, the pouring rain, the times when she wants to be wrapped against his body, sheltered in his arms_ ), they have little time before they must break for it, really move if they intend to beat it to the door. His eyes are tender now, filled with caring, with his holy way of trying to understand her, trying to reach her over the chasms she builds between herself and other people, so she takes his free hand. It's her this time that takes  _his_ hand, lifts it to her mouth. She kisses him, the wide, smooth palm, the strongly muscled wrist; she kisses the fingertips, again and again, and he whispers her name; she presses soft lips to the clean, smooth nails, the heavy veins. He had taken almost her entire hand into his mouth when he did this, she thinks hazily, there's no way she can do that, no way at all, but she does her best, she slides her warm mouth over his first two fingers, opens wider, accepts the third, suckles, licks, bites down gently. She pulls back after a moment, kisses the flesh, takes the moisture from the skin, and only then does she meet his eyes.

"I love you because you're  _not_ the same, Mr. Carson."

She leads them out then, is careful to detach their hands, to walk with a respectable distance between their bodies. Lately she has taken to wondering if it would be so bad, really, so bad if they told, so bad if they were known about. It's a ridiculous thought of course, neither of them wants to be married, to live together, to upset their lives this late in the game, but all the same -- she wonders. She thinks he does, too. Something will have to give, she knows that much, as well. This won't work, not forever, they can't always be afraid of being discovered, they can't always steal kisses and find excuses for touches, but there's no solution to it that either of them can find.

For now, she'll settle for not breaking it. For keeping it beautiful, for cherishing it alone. For not shattering the one treasure for lack of a full set. For now she will take simply not crushing the life out of what has barely begun to sprout above the ground. _And,_  she thinks _, who knows?_  The world is changing, all around them, all the time, every day. Perhaps they will find a niche, a corner, a place for them that they can fit without breaking each other into pieces in an attempt to build a jigsaw that will never hold together. For now, she will work on the building, the watering, the nurturing; she will work on the roots that they put down all those years ago, she will help him do the same. Enrich the soil. Tend the shoots. Leave the petals for later, let the leaves fall where they may.


	31. Parting

"A  _what_?"

"A  _mouser_ , Mr. Carson, this house needs a  _mouser_."

"What? You're implying that we should get -- no."

"What do you mean  _no_? You have no say, you weren't asked a  _question_. I was informing you."

Elsie raps him on the wrist briskly with the rota she had been working on and gives him a malevolent stare. He knows there's a mouse problem, had known ever since Daisy and Ivy had fled into his office shrieking for him last week to  _get it kill it Mr. Carson please it's enormous it's dreadful,_ had examined the mouse-chewed baseboard in the storehouse. They did indeed have a few unwelcome visitors, but that is hardly any reason to get a disgusting, disease-ridden, pestilence-bringing --

"So, I'll find us one and that'll sort that." Carson stares at her. She hadn't listened to a word he had to say on the subject, but he wouldn't be overridden by her on this. He hates cats, absolutely loathes them, and here she is talking about bringing one into the house. They are vile creatures, unclean, and he won't have one in the stables much less near the kitchens. Where their  _food_ is prepared. It's not the subject of the potential cat that's got him cranky and snappish, though, but her coming departure. Weeks ago, months, she had planned to go to her sister in St. Anne's, to see how she was getting on, to stay a day or three. It's a long overdue holiday ( _one could barely call it a holiday it was so brief_ ) and he can't ask her to stay, can't begrudge her time with her only family, nor time away from the house, the work, the endless repetition; he wants her to go in some ways, he supposes. He knows it will do her good to get away for a bit, especially during the winter which is so difficult for her; it will be good for her to go and drink tea and giggle with her sister, to sleep late, to relax on the train with one of her frightening novels and a packet of chocolate biscuits. All of it is good for her. He knows that. And it's only for a couple of days, three at most.

But still.  _Still_.

"So Anna will see to all of that, and Miss O'Brien can do double-duty for both Her Ladyship and Lady Mary, and there shouldn't be any problems that I can think of. Unless there's something you've thought of, I think we're all tucked away until I get back." She's looking at him expectantly, brows raised in question, lips slightly parted, and ( _damn her_ ) he's already feeling a pang of loneliness, of missing her. Her chair will sit coldly, empty next to his at the table, his nights will be filled with silent book work, no one will bring him tea or coffee unless he actually asks for it ( _she does, she seems to know exactly when he needs to stop, to sit down, to breathe_ ). She won't be there to press a calming kiss to his chin when he's fed up with uncooperative footmen and demanding, difficult guests. It's a bit of a shock, actually, to realize how dependent he's become on her presence, how alien, unnatural his days will feel without her in them. He tries to scold himself, to scoff at his own foolishness ( _it's three days, you great, bloody idiot, not three months or three weeks_ ). Carson blinks at the thought. He wonders if this is how she feels, will feel, when he has to leave for London, for the season. It dawns on him that she just might have some of these feelings, and all this time she has been so silent about it, so accepting, has shown him nothing but a cheerful, brisk smile and a wave of goodbye. Has answered his letters with no complaints, only bits of news and amusing anecdotes to cheer him, to keep him going. He's sitting here moping like a great overgrown child about three days and she has three months of it to look forward to, has been without him for a quarter of the year every year since the beginning.

_And I've been a complete bastard._

"Mr. Carson? Is there anything else, then, that needs seeing to?" She's impatient now, flicking the edges of her rota with a fidgeting thumb. Impatient to get her business sorted so she can pack for the morning, most likely; she would be a last-minute packer because she's ruthlessly organized all the time and would know exactly what she wanted to take. Not like him with his pondering, his consideration of this tie or that one, these cufflinks or those.

"No... no, Mrs. Hughes. As usual, you've thought of everything." Tries to smile, pats her arm companionably, but her eyes narrow, she leans in, looks into his face. She keeps her voice low, quiet; she doesn't whisper, but the lovely lilt is soft enough that he has to incline his face toward her to hear.

"What is it?" Ah, but he doesn't want her to ask; he doesn't want to lie to her and he certainly won't tell her the truth ( _the truth is ridiculous, embarrassing, selfish besides, she needs this trip; he has an inkling that she would stay if he asked her and he will not let her do that_ ), so what can he do? His finger goes up to touch her forehead lightly, the tip of her pretty nose, the dip of her upper lip. She smiles at his playful little touches but the concern is still there, churning away in her crystalline eyes, so he'll have to try for another diversion. With an eye toward the door, he closes the space between their faces, kisses her lightly, sweetly, just a warm rubbing of their lips together.

It works, for the moment. Her lips curve into a smile against his and she squeezes his shoulder lightly, lovingly. ( _How did they go so long, why did they suffer for all those months, years, waste so much time, why didn't they just say when it was there so obviously waiting to be born, under the surface, stretching its limbs helplessly, wanting to be picked up, embraced, wanting to become a living love?_ )

Another word or two and she is gone in her rustle of skirts, her light drift of perfume, her clicking of heels, and he's left to pull himself together, to lecture himself about being so selfish. Not just for wanting her to stay here, to stay home, but because he had left for London all those times so callously, so unfeelingly, refusing to think about how she might have felt because he was so busy ignoring how he felt himself, so busy trying to convince himself that it was Downton he'd miss, that it was the absence of  _Downton_ leaving the hollow place in his heart. He could have said so many times that he'd miss her, that he wished he weren't going or that she was going with, he could have said something. Anything. Anything that said  _not long_. Anything that said  _back soon_. He will do better next year, so much better; he will hold her and tell her over and over how much it will hurt to be separated from her, how much he will ache to be with her, to be held by her, to talk to her, share her food, share her thoughts, share her bed. Next year, she will know, and perhaps it'll make it a little easier on both of them. Perhaps he will risk a little more in his letters next year.

Carson gazes down at his desk, smiles wryly.  _A cat. Good christ._ He's surprised she hasn't lobbied for one before this; she's very a much a cat person now that he thinks about it. Small, tidy, well-groomed. Soaks up sunlight, soft cushions, backrubs. He smiles again, suppresses a laugh. Capable of coming for you with claws bared when need be. ( _What he doesn't know is that she thinks the same of him, that he is catlike; aloof, distant, snobbish to those who don't know him, capable of being completely still, completely silent in a room full of people, always observing, always alert, fond of sweet cream and sleeping in the warm valley between her breasts._ )

He goes back to work and it is several hours before he can tiredly make his way to her parlour; he knows they won't be together tonight, she'll need her rest before her early start tomorrow and he's too exhausted to be much use to her in the bedroom anyway ( _though, he thinks, though she is capable of using him quite well when left to her own devices, yes, she is quite adept at having her way, and he grows warm remembering how she had mounted him, rode him hard to her shaking climaxes, grows warm and also proud, pleased with how spent she had been that night, how utterly woman-soft and languid in the body their lovemaking had left her, how she had lain prostrate on top of him, had slept on his chest for hours that way_ ). That is a memory that will keep him company for the next few days, certainly. He raps superficially at her door and enters to hear her oddly talking to herself, singing almost as one would to a child, a baby.

"There we are, then, very nice. You're a clever thing, you are  _so_ clever. You'll do so nicely, we won't have a single mouse left in all the county."

He pushes the door closed behind him silently and stands there, agape at what he sees. She has went and done it, after he had expressly forbid it, after he had said that under no circumstances would one of the filthy things live under this roof. And here she was, sitting in her stocking feet in a pool of skirts with her hair slipping from its pins and a lithe silver streak circling her and chasing a ball of paper. Carson flexes his fingers helplessly. He should scold her, raise the roof about this, give her absolute hell, but she's so pretty and she looks so young in the soft light ( _he sees for a moment the young farmgirl who would have done this thing, this exact thing, there in her father's barn with the kittens produced every spring by half-wild queens, he sees for just a fleeting moment the girl child she was before she saw too many beatings, cringed into too many corners, scrubbed up too many drops of her mother's blood_ ) and his heart tears with a soft, lovely pain. She is lovely, this woman who stole his heart away ( _dashing away with a smoothing iron_ ), and he finds it so difficult to be angry with her, even when he feels he has a right to be, even when he knows she is in the wrong. There has been too much anger in her life, too many raised voices, too many scenes of a woman being crushed under the furious heel of an impotent, rageful man. He can't deny her, not really, and that thought is a little unnerving.

And now this cat is trying to climb his leg, clinging to his trousers, and he looks at it distastefully. Hates the things, absolutely loathes them, and he will not spend his days removing cat hair from his perfectly pressed livery, nor will he see his papers shredded or ( _he grimaces_ ) his desk used as a litter tray. Elsie is watching him with a shy smile, caught unaware as she was in such a position of playfulness, of carefree heart and easy smile; she is used to being upright, strong, no-nonsense. This is yet another new thing between them, this is yet another side of her that has been stripped naked, bared to his eyes. Carson reluctantly returns her smile as he leans over, plucks the offending feline from his ankle, and hauls it back over to her by the scruff.

"I thought I said no; I'm almost positive I said I wouldn't have one of the vermin in the house, Elspeth. You have a strange interpretation of those words."

Instead of arguing, fighting, she smiles again and goes for his jugular in a way she hadn't yet used. She becomes all soft voice and big eyes, imploring, sadly entreating. "But look at her, Mr. Carson. She was free, I didn't even have to dip into the household budget for her. And she's quite smart, she already knows how to get outside to do her business and how to chase and pounce and has all the makings of a wonderful mouser. She's lovely, look at her." Elsie picks the cat up and goes for the absolute kill, is ruthless in her swift dismemberment of his defenses. She cradles the cat to her bosom and sings sweetly to it, all the while looking at him from under her lashes with that look, that knowing look, that stare that says everything he can't deny ( _you know I'm right, you know you want to give in, you know you need to obey me, you know it's best when you do as you're told, I'll take care of everything, just let me take the lead, wouldn't you hate to waste a chance_ ). She slowly, deliberately, bites her lip and he's lost, he's laughing and lifting his hands in helpless surrender. She's evil, wicked, a horrible woman, and at the end of the day, he does, he wants to give in to her, he wants to let her take charge.

"If I see it in my office even once, Mrs. Hughes, a single, solitary time, I'll feed it to the dogs. Once."

She smiles and lifts the small cat to her cheek, presses the softly shining fur to her face and doesn't bother to answer. There's no need when she knows she has won. Carson collapses into her chair and watches her entertain the small animal for a few minutes until she settles it in the pasteboard box she has made into a bed, gives it a towel for a blanket. He doesn't argue, doesn't press the point one little bit, doesn't try to reassert himself because she is standing between his knees, drawing him forward until his head rests against her body, wrapping her arms around his neck, and his arms wind around her hips and hold tight as he tries to telegraph everything he can never say.  _I'll miss you so much. Please don't go for too long. I don't know what to do when you aren't here. You can have the cat because it makes you smile and I don't care if it shreds the linens and steals the silver, if it makes you smile like that you can have a dozen of them. Come back to me as soon as you can, you are all I have. Come back to me, come back to me, come back to me._

Promises himself that he will tell her these things, all of them; he will find the words, he will learn to write like a poet, he will paint stars on his hands and press them to her eyes to show her everything he sees when he looks at her. He will catch the sun in his pen and finally be able to spill out all the light she has brought inside him, all the of the warmth that has filled even the coldest parts of his mind, the places that had laid untouched for years, decades before this, before them. He will do all of that, he will, at least he will try, but for now this will have to do. His arms around her body and his breath against her chest and his hands tracing those compulsive hearts across her back and thighs will have to serve as translation of all the love he just can't seem to pronounce.

 


	32. Purloin

Elsie unlocks his office door and slips inside, closing it behind her. It is early yet, everyone still sleeping except for the footman stoking the fires and warming the house. It is understandable, then, why she jumps and has to press back a small scream when he says her name.

"Elspeth, don't --"

Heart hammering, she turns, fingers still pressed to her lips; he's sitting behind his desk, pen in hand, book open before him with an apologetic expression. "I was going to say don't scream, so well done." Carson smiles and wipes his pen, replaces it in the inkwell. He was writing in a beautiful book, one she has never seen, and she curiously watches him blot the page and close it; the cover is expensive, intricately tooled leather, the binding tight and firm, the pages gilt-edged. Tore her gaze away from it to ask the imperative question.

"What on earth are you doing up at this hour? You put my death right across me, Mr. Carson." She is dressed in her traveling clothes, her lovat tweed suit, has her overcoat draped over her arm. Sitting down her handbag, her basket, she lays her coat over them and crosses the room. It's only three days, she knows that, and she is pleased to see Glenna again and talk about everything, to see what they've done with the shop, to have tea together and make shortbread, but she will miss him. Quite terribly, in fact. This is why she had been stopping by his pantry; she was going to leave him a note, a token. She grumbles a bit. Of course he would be awake, though, and now she's shy and awkward. Difficult man. Her heart is warmed, however, at the fact that he is awake and she knows it is because he wants to see her off, to say goodbye, and she is glad for it. It had been difficult to leave him last night, to go to her room alone, and she had berated herself for being so stupid. It's three days; there's no need for this adolescent angst, this teenage heartsickness. They are old, for heaven's sake, old enough to be not only parents but grandparents, and she needed to remember that more often. Less time spent on nonsense and more time spent remembering she is not a young girl, a blushing bride, a flirting maid, but a spinster, a matron, a housekeeper. ( _This is what she tells herself; she has not yet learned to listen_.)

"You know good and well what I'm doing up, so don't play coy. You just want to torment me by making me say it." He smiles but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes, not quite, and she knows then that he will be missing her as well, possibly, maybe. Elsie looks down at her hands, laughs a little, embarrassed, clumsy. She thrusts the objects onto his desk, shoves them toward him. He looks down at the envelope, the tartan scarf, and this time the smile does hit his cheekbones, his eyelids, crinkles the fine skin around them.

"I -- instructions for looking after the cat, please, I know you don't like her but you'll look after her for me until I get back, won't you? Don't open it now, that's all it is. And -- you never wear a scarf when you should and I won't be here to tell you to, so I just thought perhaps, anyway." She can feel her face turning pink, red; the scarf smells of her perfume, namely because she had carefully spritzed it with her scent; the letter has two of his daisies in it, carefully snipped from the little wreath he had made her those months ago, now perfectly dried and pressed.  _Don't open it, don't open it, don't open it_. She couldn't stand it if she had to be here and watch him read her stupidity put down on paper, that was more than her dignity could bear. He touches the envelope, then his hand flattens, rests there. There's a flicker of disappointment in his eyes that she looks away from, doesn't understand, not quite. ( _Doesn't really believe, is the thing, after all this, all they've done, doesn't quite believe he wants to hear her prattling nonsense about him, about her, about them_.) They both speak at the same time.

"What's that you're --?"

"Do you have every --"

They laugh a little, he gestures for her to speak. "What's that you're writing in? It's very beautiful. Doesn't look like any ledger I have." She smiles, inches closer to his desk, tries to see. He looks down, arches his brows, taps the book with affection.

"My Christmas gift from Lady Mary. She can never wait until the day, never has been able to. It's a new diary; she's been giving me the same gift every year but it's just as appreciated; couldn't have come too soon, really, I've used all the pages in this one." Carson nods to another volume there with a different cover, but no less luxurious, no less valuable. She eyes the book appreciatively. She likes fine writing things herself, that can't be denied, and Mary's choice is particularly fine in journals. He's speaking to her now, though, asking after her.

"Do you have everything you need? Do you have money in case of an emergency, in case of anything?" ( _She does not hear everything under those words, everything unspoken; in case you want to buy something pretty, in case you want to treat yourself, but he does not say this, doesn't feel he has the right to make these kinds of overtures, not yet, they are still uncertain, still strange, would be too close to whoring to offer her money, personal money, after he has lain with her, taken her in his bed, and her without a ring on her hand_.) He takes one of her hands in his own then, rubs it gently.

"Yes, I have plenty, thank you, Mr. Carson. I have my train fare and my tea and everything. I should be all right. I'd do with a proper goodbye, maybe, from my man. If he can find one for me." Elsie smiles down at him, her dimples creasing with the motion, and he stands dressed as he is still in his dressing gown and pajamas and takes her against him, holds her against his big warm body, is careful not to wrinkle her pretty, well-pressed clothes, to not muss her intricately arranged hair. She holds on to his shoulders, his neck, feels ridiculously, stupidly like weeping.  _It's three days, you cow! Three! How will you ever see him off for the season if three days makes you want to bawl like a child kicking up?_ She tightens her hold on him, draws his beloved face down to her own, kisses his mouth with tender, promising kisses. It's enough, then, she has to go, the clock is telling her that the car will be around for her any minute to take her to the train station, and his eyes are heavy, he must be still so tired after their day yesterday and here she is keeping him from his bed.

"Go to bed now and I will be back before you know it to aggravate you and fuss about the linens. Go on." He nods, acquiesces, and she gives him a last brisk kiss and pushes him toward the door. "Go on, I'll lock up, I need to sort my handbag anyway. Glenna and I will make pounds of shortbread and I'll bring you some back." Carson turns to touch her face, her lips, and then he's gone, his tread heavy and sleepy on the stairs as he returns to his room. Elsie sighs and begins to collect her things, checks her handbag for her fare, her papers, and digs in her little basket for her novel so she'll have something to read on the way to the station. It's _Jane Eyre_ , one she hasn't read before and always meant to, and she's quite enjoying it, though finds it a bit far-fetched. _A mad wife in the attic,_ she muses,  _how would you not know?_  Elsie knows attics are generally far more dull than that, but it was a lovely, Gothic thing to get lost in _. Gods, given her poor luck in men Lady Edith will probably meet her Rochester soon, heaven help us._

She lays the book on Carson's desk while she closes her basket, tucks everything away securely. When reaching for it, her gaze falls on his diary again, the lovely soft covers, the deckle edges, the elegant engravings. She feels a slight irksome itch somewhere deep in her chest and pushes it aside, ignores it, has no idea what it means ( _but she does, yes, she could never afford to give him something that expensive, that decadent, it chafes at her though she recognizes it as an unworthy emotion, a petty gripe_ ). She focuses instead on what he had said ( _this one is full already_ ), and a little terrible hole has opened within her. Those pages are filled with his thoughts, his words, his ( _possibly maybe_ ) feelings, filled with his strong, bold copperplate; his handwriting is a work of art in itself. She'd give sixpence, sixpence twice over, to read those pages, to savor every line, but it would be the worst sort of invasion, the worst type of betrayal, she would never in a thousand years dream of doing something so utterly violating of their trust, their friendship. But he could have written about her, about them, he could have written all the things she wants to hear ( _or, a frightened little voice says, all the things she does not want to hear, he may lament of her, regret her, she may shame him)_ ; she is a woman of integrity and honor and if this were Anna's diary or Cora's or even Mary's she would not have these thoughts ( _no not ever, wouldn't even have passed her mind, she is a woman who values her own privacy to a ferocious degree_ ) but the hot greedy heart of a lover in love is not always honest, not always honorable, no sometimes the good true heart of a woman in love turns hungry.

Her heart is skittering, turning over in her stomach and she tries to stop herself, she truly tries, she clenches her fists until the nails bite her palms, she bites at her lips, she screws her eyes shut, tries not to look at it. Sometimes the hunger cannot be sated, however, until it has eaten its fill ( _whether that be the spoils of victory or the stench of defeat_ ) and she moves swiftly with shaking hands, shoves his diary into her handbag, straightens the rest of his desk, stacks the papers, moves things around so he will not notice it, places his new diary in a position of prominence so nothing will seem lacking. He may notice it, he probably will ( _when does he ever miss a trick, not ever, that's when_ ) but the part of her that is all seaside sorceress, all witch of the hills, has taken over and she recognizes an amulet when she sees it, she answers the call of a talisman ( _whether it be charm or hex_ ), and, she thinks as she puts on her coat, picks up her parcels, leaves his office with a shameful flush and a sinful heart and a burdened spirit, we are all guilty at one point or another of the sometimes twisted treason that is called being in love.


	33. Pieces

"You are ridiculous and disgusting and if you touch anything in here I will personally throw you to Isis." The cat regards him placidly, then calmly climbs onto his desk, where she proceeds to tuck her paws beneath her and begin to purr. Carson is disdainful. He'd leave the filthy thing shut in a room for the next three days if it were up to him ( _he wouldn't, not ever in life, he'd no more neglect her cat than he would the small plants in her parlour which he faithfully waters_ ), but he supposes it best to bring the thing where he can watch it, keep a sharp eye on it. There's no telling what mischief it would have gotten into there in Elsie's office, what with her lacy bits and pieces strewn about, the little blankets, the basket of knitting. No, his office is far more suitable for a cat to loaf in during the workday; it's mostly polished wood and glass and brushed steel, nothing she can really damage should she take a mind to sharpen claws or soothe teething gums.

 _She_. He wonders if Elsie has given the thing a name yet. The cat is what he plans on calling it and nothing else, but he is curious as to what she's named it. He glances down and sees the corner of her letter poking out from beneath the now loaf-shaped cat and he yanks it out with little ceremony, earning himself a baleful glare. Instructions for looking after the cat, she had said, and he had been disappointed; he had hoped for something more personal, a love note, a poem, a... he sighs. Between the two of them, he is the foolish romantic, and he doesn't wish for her to be any way other than how she is, but for some reason he'd hoped. Ridiculous, he knew, she was only going for a few days, but they are still so early on in this thing between them ( _so early and yet so terribly, horribly late_ ) and he likes reassurances, reminders that he is doing this right, that he is not cocking it all up too badly. He slides his thumb under the sealed flap, murmuring to himself or the cat, he can't tell.

"Why on earth seal it, woman? No one is going to find rules for feeding cats scandalous."

It is nothing to do with the cat, however, and he slowly sinks down into his chair as he begins to read, as he immediately realizes that she lied, that she hadn't wanted to be here while he read it, had wanted to make her escape. It's a short scrawl in her looping hand, large and flourishing across the page.

_Now laverocks wake the merry morn_

_Aloft on dewy wing;_

_The merle, in his noontide bow'r,_

_Makes woodland echoes ring;_

_The mavis wild wi' mony a note,_

_Sings drowsy day to rest:_

_In love and freedom they rejoice,_

_Wi' care nor thrall opprest._

He knows the poem, vaguely, it's a verse by a Scot whose name he can't remember, and he hears the lyrical lines in her beautiful tumbling lilt and his breath catches over the last two lines ( _in love and freedom they rejoice wi' care nor thrall opprest_ ) and he holds the paper to his lips then, closes his eyes in wonder. Carson is the romantic, yes, the marble bust and woven hanging of the palace, and she the hard, practical workhorse of the house, but she has touched him so deeply with this tiny missive, this little epistle of love. He folds it carefully, slips it back into its envelope, reaches for his diary. It'll be safe there, between the heavy pages, pressed warmly between parchment and ink. His hand fumbles, comes up empty. A furrow appears in his brow and then he smiles, she has tidied his desk before leaving, stacked things, sorted them a bit. His diary is at the center instead of the right-hand side where he always keeps it. The letter fits neatly into the volume and rests there, perfectly in the center, where he will rediscover it ( _who is he trying to fool, he will take it out, read it again, reread it many times before reaching this spot in his journal_ ) when the dates have gone by far enough. The scarf she left is folded perfectly into a square and he idly picks it up, lets the folds drop out until the warm length of it rests over his hands. It's a lovely tartan, all green and black with light shots of blue through it ( _the blue of her eyes, he thinks, that pooling oceanic shade_ ), and he doesn't know if it's one she's had or if she knit it particularly for him. Either way, it is thoughtful, needful, caring, it will keep him warm during the walk to church, to the village. His head drops a bit and he presses the cloth to his face, inhales lightly. The smell of her floods his senses, he is suddenly full of night flowers and something soft like vanilla. He'll smell of her if he wears it, her perfume will mingle with his own scent but he is glad of it, fine with that, more than fine. The scarf is refolded carefully, laid aside until he can put it with his overcoat.

The cat purrs on, sounding like a small rusty motor in the silent room, and grudgingly he smiles. "Stupid animal. At least you're quiet, I suppose I should be grateful for that much." He sighs, glances at the door to make sure it's tightly shut, and then reluctantly stretches out his hand, strokes the small, delicate head with his knuckles and is rewarded with a small headbutt and one partially opened eye. He truly did hate cats, but what could he do? She had gotten one and he had to be kind to it, had to see to its needs, else she'd have his guts. And cats needed to be patted occasionally, or so he remembered. ( _Ignores the memory of his mother curled up with one of her hundred cats over the years, contentedly petting and listening to his father read aloud_.  _He'd been a lonely child left to his own devices for the long hours of long workdays while his parents toiled and served the Lord and Lady Grantham of their time, but his mother and her cats were a fond place in his mind, a warm place where they were all in the same room of the small cottage they lived in, content to simply be together in their little family unit_.)

After a moment, he rises, stretches his back, prepares to head into the hall for his breakfast. His eyes light on the diary again and he smiles. They truly were treasures, those beautiful books that Lady Mary gave him every year, and they were special to him, very much so. Not just because they were beautiful, or expensive, but because she had spent time picking them out, thinking over what he needed, what he'd like. He harbors love for Mary in his heart, sometimes thinks of her as the daughter he should have had, would have had, and it's a daughterly gift, a journal. Carson scans his desk. He should file this year's tome away now that he had started the new one, but where on earth had it got to? He shuffles papers, lifts ledgers, comes up empty-handed. It had been just here with the other, and now there's no sign of it. Elsie had straightened his desk a bit, yes, but she had only pushed things into piles, she hadn't put anything - he turns, looks at the bookcase behind him where there is a row of journals, all similar to this one, lined up neatly according to year, shining leather spines marching in a row. She hadn't filed it, wouldn't have known where it went, for that matter. Carson opens drawers, glances around.  _Where in god's name did she -_

_She took it._

It's a ridiculous thought and he dismisses it, continues to search. She's simply laid it somewhere ridiculous as women are prone to do when tidying, put it somewhere completely inappropriate. It's going to niggle at him now until he finds it; he's like a dog with a bone that way, everything has a place and there's a place for everything, and these kinds of things drove him around the bend. He goes over the same ground, looks through the same drawers, checks under the cabinets, in the cupboards, even runs his hands under the desk in case it fell somehow when she was mucking about. Exasperated, he asks the cat.

"Where did your mum put it, cat? Women are the most impossible creatures."

_She took it._

Which, again, made no sense, because why would she do that? Why without saying something to him, and what on earth would she want with his - he stops searching, sits down heavily. She wants to read it, of course, she wants to spy, to see whatever innermost thoughts he had confessed down on those pages about them, about her, about this thing between them. He doesn't want to believe this, but the evidence is fairly clear; the diary was here, now it isn't, the only variable between the two states was her.  _Goddamn_ her. He's furious, coldly angry, and he can't even define exactly why because so many thoughts rush upon him all at once.

_What right --_

_How dare --_

But one keeps recurring over and over and it's probably what makes him the angriest.  _If she had asked, I would have given it to her._  That's the crux of it. He would have given it to her, all she had to do was ask. He'd give her anything if she'd ask him, if she'd just open her pretty mouth and say what the hell she wanted, needed, he'd see to it. But she couldn't do that, she had simply taken it without regard as to how he'd feel, without regard to the fact she had no right to see anything he might have written in a private diary, without regard to the fact that she'd rip him to shreds had he done the same.

_If she had asked, I would have given it to her._

He imagines her on the train, snugged into her seat with her small blanket over her lap, curling his diary to her like a greedy, smug child who has outwitted a simple-minded parent. What did she want to find there? Confessions of love, of lust? The opposite? Tales of trysts with other women? Anything she wanted to know, he would have told her if only she had asked him, but apparently that was too much to ask from the woman. They had lain together, he had given up everything in her hands, trusted her, but she couldn't extend him the same courtesy. She had to steal, to pilfer, to go behind his back.

And she'll find exactly nothing. She'll find no mention of  _her_ in those pages ( _though mention of so many other things in long, exquisite detail_ ) and it will hurt, the uncertainty of that, and he grimly thinks that it should hurt, perhaps it will teach her a lesson about breaking trust, about violating the sanctity of what they have. Oh, it will hurt, because he knows how much it hurts him to be uncertain, to not know where he stands, to be unsure if one's love is returned or coldly appraised and found lacking. She'll find nothing, and he can't be sorry right now, he hardens his heart, presses his lips into a granite line. Let her hurt. Let it sting. She'll have three days with Glenna to cry over it, to cry over what a heartless bastard he is, and then she'll be home and, by god, she'll answer to him for this. He overlooked the drunken accusations because she had been insecure, hurting, but this wouldn't be overlooked. Couldn't be. She had his trust and he thought he had hers, especially after that awful, painful mess in the wine cellar, that ripping agony he had held her through, especially after that. He thought they were  _past_  this, he thought if they had anything concrete, anything they could point at and define, it was the trust. Bitterly, he suddenly recalls the name of the poet she had copied down for him.  _Burns_. And the poem was a lament, a lament from Mary, Queen of Scots, as she stood imprisoned and watched winter pass over the land. He remembers some other lines, another bit, another piece.

_But I, the Queen of a' Scotland,_

_Maun lie in prison strang..._

_And, in the narrow house of death,_

_Let Winter round me rave._


	34. Postulant

The two women work side by side, comfortably, in perfect sync, the way sisters will always move together even when they are no longer girls, even when dark hair is shot with silver and lines map their faces and age softens their curves. Glenna mixes, turns, folds the soft dough, ladles it out in warm, round balls on the floury board, Elsie rolls it out with swift, sure motions, scores it, sugars it, lays it on the waiting pans. She's not a farmgirl anymore, but the motions are bred into her hands as sure as turning a perfect sheet, counting a stack of fine china plates are now. Their silence is companionable there in the airy little kitchen, all clean light wood and little braided rugs, and Elsie thinks not for the first time that perhaps Glenna is the one who made it, perhaps she's the one who really left behind that ramshackle little house and made her life into something filled with love and light. She had a good man, a man who had disappeared with a laugh when Elsie arrived ( _good to see you, Elsie, I'm off to the local, I don't need to be underfoot with you two hens clucking about, I know how you get when you're together, I'll be back for dinner_ ). A good man, a tidy shop full of pretty cheeses and neatly wrapped bricks of butter, jars of jam and preserves and deep golden honey, a snug house to the back of it. What did she have? Nothing, really. No house, no shop, no man that she could tell anyone about, no man who could make her a pretty little cutting board with her initials carved into it that she could proudly display. His gifts would have to be hidden, pressed, stashed in books and desk drawers. She hadn't wanted all of this, to be fair, she had wanted to rise above, to leave all of it behind, to move in the world of fine possessions and graceful manners. Still, she can't help but think Glenna won the fair-day goose.

"So who is he, then?"

Elsie gives her sister a sharp glance. The older woman doesn't cringe under it the way little housemaids do, only returns it with a cool stare of knowing, tucks a lock of her own dark hair behind her ear. They are so obviously sisters, even if Glenna is taller, thinner, more raw-boned. They both have their mother's hair, the shimmering brown thickness, and their father's sometimes cold blue eyes; they both have the high cheekbones that are a signature of girls from Argyll, a Scottish calling card from that area of the world. Elsie tosses her head, slaps out another square of dough on the pan.

"What are you on about?"

Glenna snorts, wipes her hands on her apron. "Don't give me that. Don't come in my house with that twitch in your hips and that bloom in your cheeks and try to tell me there's not a man. I might not be a high and mighty lady but I know the workings between men and women as well as anyone else. It's not Joe Burns, you sent him away with mud on his face. Who is it then?" She had been aghast when Elsie had turned down Joe's proposal, had urged her to rethink, to reconsider, had sent her rapidly scrawled letter and letter, trying to make her see sense _. So he doesn't have a palace, Elsie, but what good is a palace when you're old and the nights are colder? That's a good man you're passing up on and he won't have to wait long for another woman to take up right up on it and gladly._

Elsie doesn't answer, doesn't know what to say. Glenna wouldn't be shocked to know about herself and Carson, Glenna wasn't shocked by anything. She would however, be baffled at why Elsie would choose stolen nights and tears and misunderstandings over a shining ring, a kind man with honest eyes, a house of her own. Anyone would be baffled, but that's because they don't know him. They don't know his beautiful hands and his thick neck under perfectly starched collars and the way he is tender with her body, they don't know his attention to detail, his appreciation of beauty, his big chest covered with soft hair that she can sleep on like a luxurious bed. They don't know how different he is, how right he feels ( _how right when Joe had felt all wrong_ ), how everything is discordant and crashing in her head sometimes until he touches her face and smooths it all out into soft singing harmony. She doesn't know how to explain any of that so she just stands there, silent, caught.

"Oh, Els, it's that big butler, isn't it? That big barn of a man." She guessed, of course she guessed. Her sister knew her inside and out, knew her better than anyone in this world except Carson, knew her better than him, even. She's not sure how Glenna knows, though, what had given it away.

"How -- why do you say that?" Glenna sighs, gives Elsie a searching, sympathetic look, and slides the pans into the waiting hot oven. Their preparations done ( _nothing left now but the baking_ ), she puts the kettle on for tea before answering. Elsie drifts over to the scrubbed kitchen table and sits, props her face in her hands.

"Lass, anyone with eyes would know it. I've only seen the two of you together twice in all these years you've been over there, and even then you were joined at the hip. You know that, don't you? You move at the same time, you finish each others words. I don't know when this all started but it's been brewin' there for an age." Glenna sets out the blue teacups, the plain silver spoons. She relents at Elsie's look of panic and squeezes the back of her sister's neck with a gentle hand, with those strong fingers they both inherited from their parents. "Don't look so frightened; it's just me can see it because I know my sister. I'm sure anyone else just thinks you're well-trained in your ways." A lie, Glenna thinks, there's been attraction there since the start. Elsie's letters were always filled with news of him between the paragraphs ( _Mr. Carson is having a fit about the new finish on the floors; thank god Mr. Carson was there to sort it, else we'd have been lost)._ And now apparently there was something else, something beyond an attraction; apparently now they had acted upon it in some way, and Glenna worried. Worried about her career which was so important to her, worried about the future that she surely can't have with that man, worried about her heart, so carefully hidden away for so long. Elsie is whispering now, her hands laced together under her chin in fists.

"I love him, Glenna, I love him so much. I didn't know how much, I didn't know how -- I didn't know it would be -- I didn't know." Elsie watches as her sister pours the tea, drops a single sugar cube into her cup, slides it toward her. She hadn't known, even that night when she went to him for the first time, she had tried to convince herself that it would be a diversion, a consolation prize for what she couldn't have, a warm feeling and something to put spring in her step. This stomach churning, upsetting love was never supposed to be part of the equation, she was never supposed to care either way. And now here she is, and she doesn't know herself half the time anymore, and she's quick to jealousy and anger and her handbag holds his stolen journal and she's so  _possessive_ , god, she's  _possessive_ of him.

"Tell me something, Glenna." The other woman looks up from stirring her own tea, widens her eyes in question. "Am I like Da?" Glenna pauses in her stirring, narrows her eyes in concern.

"Where's this coming from, turnip? What do you mean are you like him? In some ways, you are, sure, and in some ways I am." That's not the answer Elsie is looking for and so she gropes, she reaches to explain exactly what she needs to hear.

"Ever since this thing between Mr. Carson and myself started, I find myself, I don't know -- angry, something. Not with him, just --" Glenna sighs, nods, understands the unspoken words.

"Jealous, quick to a temper, quick to shout at him for nothing, quick to tears?" Glenna smiles sadly. "Quick to blame him for things he's never done and never would do?" Elsie's eyes squeeze closed against the sudden tears shining there and she nods, her sister reaches over, clasps her hand.

"I know. And no, you're not like Da, not in the ways you're thinking. You're going through the same mess I had when I first married my Reg. Crying all the time, roaring about. We weren't exactly schooled in how to handle men, Elsie. Men or marriage or any of it." She watches Elsie carefully, protectively. It's clear that this man has her upset, shaken, but she'll reserve judgment about whose fault that is exactly until she hears more about what precisely is going on. Her younger sister was intelligent ( _whip smart she was, always with the best marks in school, always quick to pick up on anything she was taught, she hadn't risen to the top like good cream in that house for nothing_ ) and she felt no need to lecture her even if she didn't understand it. From what Glenna remembered, he was a nice enough fellow if a bit uptight, but where could it go? How could it end if not in heartache? "Well, at least you can't end up big with his bairn and cast out in the street, there's always that."

Elsie smiles through the tears, laughs helplessly. "Bit late in the day for that, isn't it?" She sighs, scrubs at her eyes, gropes around for how to start, for how to explain any of it. "I don't know. He's just always been there and he knows me, he knows me so well. We know each other. And after I thought I was sick, it seemed so stupid to -- I wanted him, I won't try to pretty it up, I wanted him and so I had him and now -- what am I going to do? What are we going to do, what can we do? I got drunk, Glenna, I got falling down drunk awhile back and I said the most horrible things to him. And now I've -- " Her cheeks turn crimson, she covers her eyes with her fingers and whispers in a mournful little voice. "I've done something awful." Glenna reaches over, pries her hands away from her face.

"What have you done that's so awful, then? Out with it and maybe we can see how to fix it." Elsie gulps her tea to stall for time, to figure out something that will make her actions seem less mad than they were.

"I've taken his -- I stole his --" She turns in her chair, stretches to retrieve her handbag from the shelf behind them. Fumbling with the clasp, she opens it and pulls out the purloined diary and sits it on the table between them like a forbidden jewel, like a pilfered treasure. "God, Glenna, it was on his desk and I told myself to leave it alone but something came over me and I couldn't stop myself and he's going to be in a rage when he finds out I've taken it, and I don't blame him, it's just that --" Her sister picked the book up, examined the ornate cover, ran her hand over the supple leather.

"Is this a diary? His diary? Oh, Elsie! That's not like you, not a bit; I remember when I read your love note to the neighbor boy when we were ten, you almost tore the skin off me. Gave me a pompous little speech about respecting the rights of others if I recall." She looks at her with askance. "Have you read it?" Elsie shakes her head.

"No, not a word, I didn't. I told myself I could read it here to keep myself from looking at it on the train." Glenna nods and she is opening the book, flicking through the pages, and Elsie is horrified, frozen with fear at what might spring from those perfectly written pages, but her curiosity is burning like a wildfire and perhaps it's best this way, perhaps it's best if Glenna reads it and tells her what lies between the covers, maybe that way she can stand it, maybe that way she won't be sick when she reads words of other women, of other love. Her sister's face is a cloud of confusion, however, as if she's reading something in a foreign language, looking at a Rosetta Stone instead of a man's journal. "What -- can you not read his handwriting? You should be able, it's flawless, the man must have won every penmanship award in school." Her sister shakes her head slowly.

"No. I don't understand, this is the dullest diary I've ever seen. I don't even know -- it makes no sense, is he keeping lists of things? What's 'plate two, serve one, turn to six o'clock' mean, for heaven's sake? Is it secret code for something?" Elsie looks at her for a long moment and then snatches the book away, ignores Glenna's protest. She looks at the page, begins flipping, faster and faster, her heart sinking into a ball of dread, of cold humiliation. She's been stupid, she's been so stupid, how could she have been  _so stupid_? Oh gods, she's an  _imbecile_ , just like she accused him of thinking her. Of course that's what it is. Of course he wouldn't keep -- she answers her sister's persistent query with a dull voice.

"It's a  _butler's diary_. A butler's. I forgot. I forgot -- housekeepers used to have them, as well, but Mrs. Poole before me did away with it and I didn't see the need to take it back up. So I forgot." Glenna looks at her, prompts her to continue.

"What's that, then, a butler's diary?"

"They keep them and record how they -- it's a manual, I suppose, for them that come after. A record of how he does things, lays tables, pours wine at different dinners, announces guests at balls. Butlers would keep them and the next butler after would read them to -- they'd use them to get started, I suppose, and then change whatever needed changing. It's an old thing, lots don't bother with it anymore, but he would. Of course he would." She closes the book, shoves it back into her handbag. "I've done it then, haven't I? And for nothing. If I had thought, I would have known he wouldn't keep a personal diary. It's not his way, he'd be too afraid of it going astray." A little hysterical laugh rises in her throat. "He'd be paranoid that someone would read it." The laugh gives way to tears and she covers her face there at her sister's table, leans forward into her hands, and sobs. She hears Glenna getting up, rustling around the kitchen, and then a handkerchief is pressed into her hand and her sister's arms are around her and she feels ten again, hanging on to her big twelve-year-old sister who knew everything, had all the answers, did everything first.

"Hush now, enough of that. You've not ruined anything, I'm sure of it. Just go to him when you get back, Els, go right to him and tell him what you did. Confess it and ask him how you can make it right. I daresay he loves you, too, if there's all this kind of thing going on. You're not one to waste time on anything unrequited, I know that much. Just - maybe if you don't fight with him,  _don't argue_  because you know you did wrong, just be properly shamed about it and ask him to forgive you." Elsie wipes her face, takes some deep, shuddering breaths, presses a little grateful kiss to the other woman's cheek. Satisfied that the worst has passed, her sister takes her seat again and sips her cooling tea, absent-mindedly nibbles at some shortbread. "Turnip, if you've never been able to do one thing, and you can do most things and do them well, it's talk to people about feelings and emotions and all of that. You get defensive, you go on the attack trying to score points before the other man can. Don't do that. Sometimes we're just wrong and we have to take our scoldings. That doesn't mean -- " She hesitates at the next but knows it needs to be said, needs to be put out in the air. "Doesn't mean it's the same as with Da. He's not going to -- not every shout is followed with a beating, Els. It took me four, five years of being married to Reg to figure that out finally, to not think he was going to put my face into a window every time we argued over his smelly socks on the floor." Elsie nods, mops at her face pathetically. "But you know, that's how you know this matters. I never had any of that with the lads back home, any notion of it, but when I married up with Reg, it all came pouring out of me. I was so feart all the time, so feart that it would all turn -- into them. Mam must have thought a lot of Da in the beginning, and I thought it, I thought any man could turn, like a dog you're not quite sure of. That took some time to work out. But, you know, thirty-eight years now and the most my man has done is never learned to pick up his socks." The two women smile the same identical smile, the same dimples crease at exactly the same place in their cheeks.

Elsie feels some of the steel come back into her spine, the thin invisible rod that the two little Hughes girls developed at a young age, a prop that kept them upright and going forward when others wilted, broken and lost, on easier roads than they got to travel. She'll go to him then, the minute she gets home, and she will tell him. She'll look him in the eye, give him back his journal, and tell him everything that was said and felt and thought at this homey table, and she'd ask for forgiveness. For once, she'd bend her own stiff neck and ask him to find it in his heart to see the intent and not the act, to accept the fact that she'd never hurt him intentionally, she'd never betray him with malice, but that this new love left a frightened girl inside her that didn't always know how to proceed, who was bound to make some blunders along the way. Since that day after the cricket match, he has apologized to her more than once, has taken responsibility for his actions, has taken his scoldings and not lamented of them, and him a proud man, a giant of a man who was trained to be without flaws, without mistakes. It's her turn now, she knows, and she accepts that fully. This time, she will go to him, and she will confess. Regretful, with remorse. Expose the sins of her long-battered heart. Lay down her armor of anger and pride and simply await his verdict. Offer up the rosary of her love, her need, her want. There, in his room of glass and wood, she will sit and bare this little dark spot on her soul; if need be, she will be glad to kneel for him, knowing that there is no shame, no horror, but only healing in the cleansing fire of penitence.


	35. Patina

With a put-upon sigh, Carson arranges the little box in a corner of his bedroom, swaddles the towels into a round nest, and drops the cat unceremoniously into it. "I don't know what she does with you at night, so I suppose it's best to have you where you can't shred a hundred years of journals." The cat sits balefully, looking at the box with distaste, then proceeds to wash herself with the greatest of care. He looks at her for a long moment, and then shakes his head, turns to his own nightly rituals. It takes him an age to get undressed for the night, so complicated and ornate is his white-tie livery, but he rather likes the ceremony of it. It means getting to appreciate the fine cloth of his shirt, the silk of his tie, the heavy weight of his cuff-links and watch. Beautiful things are meant to be appreciated, cared for, cherished. It's one of the reasons he had worked so hard to rise above the station of his birth, it was an appreciation his mother bred into him despite their modest means. She would pick flowers with long stems, arrange them artfully in a jar, show him how they brightened up the room on even the most dismal days.

_A hundred years of journals._

_Beauty is meant to be appreciated._

His careful hands grow angry, tense; he yanks at his cuffs, jerks his sleeves off his arms. He thought the anger would have died down by today, thought a night's sleep and a long day's work would have served to beat some of it out of him, but it hasn't, not really. The initial rage has subsided, but he's still so ( _hurt_ ) furious with her, still so insulted that she thought she had to resort to stealing, sneaking to have whatever questions she had answered, whatever curiosity about him fulfilled. He would have told her anything, if he could, if she had asked. That's been the problem all along, really, with them, with him, with her. He can't say what he wants to say and she doesn't just ask, she expects him to know what she wants, what she needs, and there's so much there that he gets tangled up, confused as how to start. If she'd just sort herself and ask these things, life would be so much simpler. Why doesn't she understand that, why doesn't she understand that he has spent his life waiting to be  _asked_? What is a butler if not a man who lives to be  _asked_ , never volunteering, only responding when spoken to?

If he is honest, it's how he has spent his entire life. While his father worked in the gardens, while his mother toiled as a daywoman and spare scullery maid for the big house, he had spent his days quietly practicing his penmanship, reading, keeping their little cottage in order so his mother didn't have to start slaving again the moment she got home. He had some mates at school, some casual lad friends that he would kick a ball around with here and there, but for the most part he was a solitary boy, a quiet one, content with his own company, happy to ghost along behind his father on the grounds when he was allowed, always quietly awed when his mother walked him through the house during its empty periods. He was so careful not to touch anything, painstakingly wiping his little shoes before entering the hall. She would walk him along, pointing out this beautiful object and that painting, showed him the grand library with its hundreds of books. She had promised him that if he were good, worked hard, learned everything, one day he would work in this house, would care for those beautiful things as if they were his own.

And so he had. Perhaps that's one of the reasons he's so angry with her right now. It isn't just the contents of the journal, but the thing itself; it's one of the beautiful things that is his own, gifted to him by a treasured daughter of this house, expensive, luxurious. Something he can leave behind for those after him; those journals have his name emblazoned on the inside covers, they are his small heirlooms that will prove he has been here, he has moved among all this finery, he has been worthy to live in such splendor. It would be like if he had taken that lovely heather wrap that she loves so much; he has watched her wear that pretty little thing, skimpy and impractical as it is, in all sorts of weather, and he has understood. Has understood why being cold is worth being wrapped in all of that fine-spun beauty, feeling the indulgent cloth against her skin.

He puts his jewelry and his bits and pieces carefully in their places on his dresser, folds his livery with immaculate sharpness. Pulls on his pajamas, his dressing gown. He isn't ready to sleep yet, so it's good a time as any to read, to take some leisure for once. He pauses, lifts the lapel of the robe to his nose.  _Gods damn it all._ This is the one she had worn that night, that night after they had made swift, hard love in his bed and she had stayed for a while, had cuddled onto his lap here in his armchair, heavy and warm and soft. The scent of her is all around him now, light and clean but with something darker beneath it, something musky like the perfume of moon flowers. He runs a big hand through his hair, mussing it into unruly curls, and takes his book from the nightstand, drops into his chair with an irritable sigh. Being upset with her upsets  _him_ , he hates it, it shakes his center, it destabilizes his foundation, and she's with Glenna for at least another two days so they can't sort it, he can't give her a piece of his mind, row with her and have it done. He just has to sit with it and he's not a man used to inaction; he's a man who believes in solving problems, putting things in their correct place, but no, he has to _sit with it_  and brood over it and not know what to do and he's read the same paragraph four times now and still has no idea what it says. Carson rubs his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and there is a soft thump on the arm of his chair and he looks down to see her cat ( _her stupid wretched cat_ ) carefully picking her way across his lap and she's kneading now with her paws on his thigh, little bread-making motions.

"No, go away. Get down, you stupid thing." He bats at her gently but she ignores his protest and settles down into her loaf-shape and begins to purr and he rolls his eyes to heaven. Bad enough he has to look after the cat, now it has apparently decided he is a couch, a sofa, a place where it can curl up and sleep as it will.  _Not unlike Elspeth,_  he thinks, and against his will a small smile forms at the corners of his mouth. No, not unlike her at all, she has done precisely that; she has lived in his life until one day deciding he is a good place for her to sleep, to rest, to find comfort and succor and she has taken him over, conquered his heart and mind and body and soul and there is no use fighting it because, unlike this idiot cat, he wants it more than he can remember wanting most anything. He gives the cat a grudging stroke with the knuckles of his hand, rubs her along her spine.

"So, Miss No Name, what will we call you?"

Mrs. Patmore had told him earlier that Elsie had yet to name the cat, had meant to but got caught up in her preparations to leave, had left it until she got back. He frowned. He'll name the damn cat himself, then, see how she likes that bit of sand in her eye. It's tempting to call her something like  _stubborn_ or  _hard-hearted Hannah_ or  _stealing, pilfering little witch,_ but, he reasons, that would be a bit petty. The cat's motor is running on high now and she is warm and not an unpleasant weight on his legs and he is again reminded of his mother's affection for the animals, how she would leave out saucers of milk for them by the door and they'd end up tame, loving, fat and sleek and happy. He had spent many an hour as a young boy with a cat curled on his pillow at night keeping him company. Had whispered many a dream to cats not unlike this one. Carson looks at the kitten speculatively.

"You seem like a Melda. How does that suit?"

He's not sure why she seems like a Melda, only that she does. Not even sure where the name came from; he's not known a Melda or an Imelda in his life that he can remember. Perhaps he went to school with a girl of that name, perhaps one of the visiting ladies was called that. The cat only purrs her contentment, so he takes that as a sign of agreement, of being pleased with his choice.

"That's it, then, you're Melda, even if I don't know why. Who knows, cat, perhaps I was married to a Melda in another life." He laughs to himself a bit and his mind turns back to Elsie, to this rift between them, and he tries to think of how to make it right. Tries to be objective, practical; tries to figure if he's overreacting or being prickly for no good reason. After all, there was nothing in the diary for her to find, only serving instructions and announcement rotations, but that wasn't the point. It had been his, and she hadn't asked, and --  _but_ , his mind argued,  _does it matter who's right or does it matter who's happy?_  He can't decide, he's never had to  _make_ these kinds of decisions before. Carson wonders, too, if this is merely a diversion from the bigger problems, the bigger questions they would have to face, to answer before it was all said and done. Where was this going? How could this end?

He knows they can't carry on like this forever, they can't keep slipping to his room or her room late at night, can't keep being careful to walk not too close but not too far to and from church. There's no real risk of them being sacked if they are found out, he doesn't think; Anna and Bates are married and the world hasn't ended, and he and Elsie are far more important to the workings of the household than they are. It's unlikely that His Lordship would do anything except insist on them being married at the earliest convenience so there'd be no question of gossip, but there is the sticking point, isn't it? They don't want to be married, not really; they are both so old now, she almost sixty and he well past it, halfway to seventy now. Anna and Bates are still young enough to have a family, to set up a house together, there is a point to them being married. What would marriage bring for him and Elsie except a union wherein they grew fractious, chafed at one another because they were so set in their ways, so used to doing things under their own accord and taking no one else into consideration? They can produce no issue ( _and he strongly doubts that would be the case even if it were possible, she mothers, yes, but she would have been miserable trapped in a cottage with a baby on her hip, there's a reason she had turned away from all that as a younger woman_ ), they can build no business. Carson has toyed with the idea of lying, of taking her to London, buying her a wedding band. They could tell everyone that they had married but preferred to carry on as always in their separate rooms with their separate careers; His Lordship could hardly complain about that. It would simultaneously kill two birds with one stone; any gossip would be cut off at the knees and they wouldn't be trapped in a marriage that neither of them desired. ( _Though he would marry her, he would; he has not admitted it to himself yet because he knows she does not want it and thus he cannot want it, but he would put his ring on her hand, he would, not so much for the ceremony of it or the social standing involved with it but to mark her, to claim her, to brand her as his; he does not own her, he knows this, he would not want to, her independence and strength is what he treasures, what makes him desire her with dark, heady desire, but he would warn off those who might covet her, he would._ )

 _No_. That's the problem, that right there, that solid, inflexible  _no_. Every time he convinces himself that it's a feasible plan, his conscience balks, a door slams shut in his mind. He will not lie, he will not be involved in any sham regarding their relationship. They are being secretive now, yes, private ( _private, not secret, there's a difference, hadn't little Anna said that once_ ) but they are not lying, they are not operating under false pretenses. They are not doing anything shameful, not to him. He's not sure how she feels about it, he doesn't know exactly what she wants to become of this. His grudging pats have lengthened into affectionate caresses of the soft velvet fur in his lap and the little silver tabby hums on, unaware of his confused, conflicting thoughts. It's clear that he'll get no reading done tonight, so he closes the book, shoves it back onto his table.

"What do I do about your mum, cat? Hm? Where do we go from here, Melda? No? Nothing to say? Useless."

Perhaps they should stop this, break it off, withdraw. That thought has occurred to him, yes, but it opens such a horrifying, empty chasm inside him that he scrambles back, immediately retreats, because he cannot fathom that. He cannot stand the idea of going back to how they were before; it has occurred to him that if she were to stop it, he might have to leave Downton, go and work at a neighboring estate. He could always find employment in a big house, there was no question of that, but it would kill him to leave this beautiful palace of dreams that he had longed for since he was old enough to  _have_ dreams. It would kill him more, though, to watch her day after day, to see her stride the halls, to hear the soft, musical clang of her keys, to sit next to her at the table knowing that he'd never touch her again. He could survive leaving Downton; he could not survive leaving her.  _That's the damnable thing about it_ , he wonders,  _how had that happened?_  Downton was his first love, his only love for so many years, his second mother, and now it is somehow taking a backseat to her, to them, to what they have found together. It is senseless, backward, but there it is, undeniable.

As he grows more aware of the soft fur under his fingers, he begins to understand. Downton was a castle of stone and glass, of metal and wood; it's beauty was a cold thing, a hard thing, and it had been the only beauty he had known. Then this woman came along, this high spirit, this warm creature of blood and bone and skin and hair and he had touched her ( _that it what had pushed this over the edge, the day he had touched her hair, her hand_ ) and found that it was lacking, all of it ( _the glass the wood the stone_ ) because it was not her, it was not the singing, roaring, rushing, dangerous beauty of her and it paled in comparison. Downton aged and never changed, not really, but she aged and he could watch it and now he would feel the changes, he would feel the curves change under his hands, trace the lines that deepened in her face, finger the silver strands that were more metallic than the soft sable of her hair. His sense of touch had been muted, dulled, diminished by years of polishing silver and plate and the day he touched her for the first time ( _truly touched her, touched her with not only his hands but his heart his mind his need_ ) it had reawakened like an electric current had been passed through him and he cannot go back, not now, no matter how angry he is with her, no matter how much she deserves the row they will most certainly have. He cannot go back to sleepwalking through his life, to living with his nervous system ( _his heart his needs his wants his emotions_ ) buried under three feet of patina. She has brought him alive and his heart is no longer a clockwork mechanism but a living thing, a beating pulsing essential organ, a collection of fear and love and hope and despair that lives in the warm cradle of her hands.


	36. Pardon

She stands holding her handbag and travel basket, waiting for the porter to swing down her small suitcase from the luggage department. The trip back had been nice, smooth, she had spent the hours engrossed in her novel and watching the English countryside slide by, and had refused to let herself worry about what awaited her at Downton. She is ready to talk to him, to try to make it right, and there is no use in brooding herself sick over it when it simply had to wait until she arrived. Elsie takes a deep breath, smiles at the man, thanks him. She bends to pick up her valise and freezes when a large hand ( _a hand she'd know anywhere, why wouldn't she, it was a hand that had been in her hair, in her mouth, on her body, between her legs_ ) covers hers, moves it aside, takes her case up. There had been many things she expected on the way back, but his being here was not one of them. Had never even entertained the idea; he had plenty to do, his days rarely had time for deviation, not when there was a house to run.

"Welcome home, Elspeth."

As angry as he has been, as hurt, his heart is right again now that she's home, now that she's with him, and he feels parts of that anger giving way to rightness, to completeness, and he fights with them. It isn't something he can let slide, he struggles to hang on to that feeling of insult, of betrayal. There's a line in the sand that he has to draw but he's looking at her now and her eyes are huge with apprehension, her knuckles are white around the handles of her basket and bag, and he knows she knows, he knows that she is waiting for his condemnation, his furious words. Try as he might, his heart is draining and refilling, the vessels are exchanging blood and with it his emotions are shifting and transforming and this is new, so new for him, so new for a man used to rendering judgment, so brand new for one who enjoyed ( _yes, a part of him enjoyed it, felt it made him morally superior, ethically lofty_ ) playing judge and jury. Instead of wanting to bawl her out, give her a piece of his mind, he feels the absurd desire to comfort her, reassure her, take her in his arms and hold her until the anxious lines in her forehead smooth away, until the dimples reappear in her cheeks, until she isn't punishing her soft lower lip with the cut of her teeth. Shifting her case from hand to the other, he inhales slowly, lets out his breath in a sigh.

"I think you have something -- "

"Yes, yes, I do, so much, I'm so sor --"

"Please don't interrupt me, please let me say what I -- "

"Yes, of course, please. "

"I think you have something that belongs to me?"

Clumsily, she opens her handbag, pulls out his journal, holds it out to him with honest eyes, swallows with an audible click in her throat. She would not get defensive, she would not shout, she would not try to put it back on him, no matter what. Glenna's words ring over and over in her brain ( _don't argue, turnip, not when you're in the wrong, don't try to score points before the other man can_ ) and she doesn't know what to do other than what she's always done, which is not the right thing, so she simply stands there holding out his book and waiting for him to speak, to shout, to humiliate her, excoriate her, gut her in front of all these people, for isn't that what people do? When there are disagreements, when you have done something wrong? People punish you, as severely as possible, and there is little you can do about it except fight back once you are cornered, to come out scratching and biting and desperate to survive it. She doesn't know any other way and so she simply waits. He looks at her, at the journal, closes his hand over it. It disappears into his overcoat pocket without a word and Elsie shifts from one foot to the other. She won't interrupt, she won't try to direct this, she'll let him have his say for once. No cutting remarks, no jibes, no sarcasm. When he speaks, his voice jolts her, startles her; it is gentle, patient.

"You could have asked. You  _should_ have asked."

It's all slipping away despite his efforts to hang onto it, the anger and hurt are dying back now that she is standing here before him and he doesn't know what to make of that. He can't let her walk over him, treat him like something to be casually hurt and overlooked, but he can feel the remorse radiating off of her, he can almost hear the regret singing off of her in sad little waves and it scratches at him, rips at his heart with little pinching pains and his eyes are wet and he cannot punish her any farther than she has punished herself. She has never been like this with him, not ever, and her name is now written across yet another soft place in his heart ( _a tender place, the place where forgiveness blooms and pollinates_ ). The platform is emptying now, travelers are straggling into the station out of the cold air and he knows he shouldn't but he dares anyway because she has dared, she has dared to come to him with repentance written in her eyes, with apology drawn on her soul, and who is he trying to fool? He wants to hold her more ( _miles more, fathoms more_ ) than he wants to be angry with her so he bends, cups her cheek, presses his mouth softly to her bitten lips, pulls back enough to run his thumb over the indentation in the soft pink fullness.

"You've got to stop doing that, you've a terrible habit of it."

Everything inside of her is shaking and he has kissed her and his voice is not loud and filled with rage but quiet, loving, even after her wrongdoing, even after she had acted badly ( _and why shouldn't it be, she is able to love him through anger, but that has been a one-way street in her life always, it has always been something she has given, never something she has received so she does not recognize it, not even when it is a twin reflection of her own heart_ ). She reaches up, touches his warm cheek with her cold fingers, and her tears spill onto her lashes. She wants to tell him everything that Glenna had said, wants to tell him how sorry she is, why she did what she did, wants to explain that there was no evil intent in her heart but only a burning desire to know him, to understand him better, and she didn't know how to ask the questions she wanted to ask ( _what do you need where do you run to who have you loved_ ) because she isn't sure of the words. They are questions formed by feeling more than thought and it is so difficult to articulate questions on the tongue when they are asked by the heart. This is not the place for that conversation, however, so she simply draws his face back down and kisses him, breathes in his breath, gives him her own. He straightens after a moment and she collects herself, reminds herself that this is a public place, very public, and besides it is growing colder. He is asking something of her now, she takes a deep breath, tries to focus.

"Have you eaten? I mean properly eaten?"

To his critical eye she looks pale, but perhaps that is simply the cold; either way, she must need a good meal after her trip and there is time enough for them to linger, her train arrived a few minutes early and there's no reason they can't stop in to the small pub of the train station and buy her a plate of something, a hot cup of tea. Time enough for that; he laments that there's not time enough for anything nicer, anything more upscale that she most certainly deserves, but then they are servants and he can't afford to forget that. Pubs are where they eat when eating away from home, though it rubs him wrong to take her into what is more or less a drinking establishment. She's been in pubs enough before, of course, all of the downstairs visited the local a few times a year, but - he pushes the useless thoughts aside. He is no lord and she no lady ( _she is, though, she is elegant and lovely and poised and well-groomed, she has as much right to those beautifully appointed places as anyone and this is another new thing, this kind of thinking, he is a firm believer in Them Upstairs and Them Downstairs and usually sees nothing wrong with the division, the barrier, it has made him his living after all, it is all he has ever known_ ) and so the pub it will have to be. Carson extends his arm to her and she slips her hand into the warm crook and they head into the station.

"Not particularly? I could eat, I think, but have we the time? I don't want to be taking you away from your work, Mr. Carson, I didn't think -- I didn't expect you'd be meeting me here. Though I daresay I'm glad of it. Very glad." She smiles a small smile and those lovely parentheses around her mouth deepen. "It costs me nothing to admit it."

And for the first time since all of this began, it costs her nothing. For this one moment, there is no doubt, no shadow lurking in the back of her mind that says it will all turn to ruin, it will all go astray. She doesn't have to store up this moment of goodness for fear that there will not be another, she can both take and let go with both hands and let it simply be what it is; a woman and her man going for a meal on a sunny winter's day. He has forgiven her, she can feel that, she can feel the warmth and the lack of anger in his body, the softness of his posture, the way his neck is straight but not tight, the set of his shoulders is firm but not hard. She still needs to say it, to say the words of apology, and she will. Perhaps here over a plate of mash and sausages, over her pot of tea, his pint of ale. Perhaps later over their wine in his office. If they are very lucky, perhaps before they make love in his bed and he properly welcomes her home with his whispered cries of her name. She will say it, this is not quite done, but the frozen block of dread is no longer sitting on her stomach, her chest, and everything is forward again, everything is propulsion, everything is advancing to somewhere else, somewhere she can't anticipate, somewhere she's never been before and thinks he hasn't either. He has kissed her, touched her face, stroked her lips, and once again everything is this beautiful slow acceleration.


	37. Purify

Elsie examines the room, runs her fingers along surfaces, checks the baseboards and the picture frames for dust; she crouches to look beneath the bed, the wardrobe. While she doesn't resort to the white-glove test many of her colleagues are in favor of ( _finds it stupid, overly critical, ridiculous_ ), she is known for her exacting standards, for the cleanliness and beauty of the rooms she and her maids look after. She begins opening drawers, one after the other, examining the lining paper, the sachet for crispness, freshness. The new maid is coming along well, she thinks, there's nothing to be faulted that she can find, but she'll encourage her to do a little better. That was her secret. When you don't know where to start with a new girl, don't expect anything; just put them to trial and then adjust accordingly. She gives praise, but she never stops urging them to go that extra mile, see to that extra detail. It's what keeps her small army of girls one of the best in the county, if not the best, and they work willingly for her, gladly. She nods, satisfied, then stops and listens. There's a faint sound down the corridor - yes, the Branson child is crying, she's sure of it. No concern of hers, the child has a nanny and one of her maids tends to its nursery twice a day.  _She, not it_ , she reminds herself.

Elsie has never been particularly maternal, she more or less approves of children in a vague way as long as they aren't ripping apart her house or chasing Melda around the place with sticky fingers. Lady Sybil's child is a typical baby with typical needs; she cries, she eats, she wets, she sleeps. The girl is starting to grow now, to reach out, to pull herself into a variety of positions in her crib, and Elsie thinks it won't be long before she'll be tearing around like her mother before her. Seeing her grow from infant to toddler and realising that childhood, proper childhood, isn't far behind makes Elsie feel her age, makes her clock the passing of time. That's what children are best at, she thinks, marking seasons ( _birthdays schooldays Christmases_ ) and years and decades. There's no time for this sort of brooding, however, she still has a good six bedrooms to inspect before she finishes her day's work. She spares a thought for Carson, wonders where he is; dinner is over and the family has scattered to their various evening pursuits, the servants have eaten and are finishing up their work before their own meager free time. Elsie sends up a wish that he's in his pantry, resting, taking a cup of tea. A futile wish, she's sure, but she sends it up nonetheless. With the door locked securely behind her, she moves on the next room but pauses before entering. The baby is still crying, which is unusual. The nurse is a good one, a practical and kind woman who is diligent in her work; Elsie has formed a mutual sympathy society with her over their shared affliction of migraines, they look out for one another, trade tips ( _don't eat chocolate try drinking chamomile before bed sleep with lavender under your pillow_ ), always keep an extra powder or two about in case the other runs short. She'll go down then, make sure everything is well in the nursery. If Helen is down with a headache, Elsie can send a maid up to pitch in, at least to stop the infernal racket. She shudders slightly; can't imagine anything worse than having to hear that when one's head is already being torn apart with pain.

As she makes her way down the hall, she scans, observes, checks the carpet for threadbare spots, for stains, makes sure doorknobs are polished, wood grain is wiped down. If the girls sometimes fall down, and they rarely do, it's in the hallways. She makes a mental note to give them a thorough going-over when the house is empty for the holiday up north. The crying has stopped now abruptly, Helen has obviously tended to whatever the girl needs, but Elsie pushes the door open anyway, wants to be sure she doesn't want any assistance. What she sees elicits a sigh from her chest, a frustrated little sound, and she goes in, closes the door behind her. And  _here he is_ , holding the baby, gently jostling her, wiping the tears from her cheeks. As if he doesn't have enough to do, as if he needs to be taking on someone else's responsibilities on top of his own. Elsie purses her lips a bit, shakes her head. He has a soft spot for the Branson girl, just like he does for the Crawley daughters, and she knows nothing will ever change that.

"Are you a nanny as well as a butler now, Mr. Carson? I'll have to tell His Lordship that you deserve a raise, perhaps a more appropriate uniform." He turns, smiles at her, shifts the baby onto his hip with a surprising practiced ease for a man who has never fathered children, never reared them. She smiles reluctantly; the baby turns to face her, examines her with that solemn countenance that all babies seem to share and she arches her brows, gives the girl a little chuck under the chin.

"Now hardly that, Mrs. Hughes. She was upset and Helen had to step away for a few minutes, so I saw no reason not to check on Sybil." Elsie looks exasperated.

"It wouldn't have hurt her to cry for a few minutes, either. You'll spoil her, you realize that, I hope." She frowns, eyes the baby critically, rubs a lock of her hair between forefinger and thumb. It's slightly oily. "A bath is what she could use, not cuddling." He's beautiful with the child in his arms, she admits, he would have been quite the father had he chosen to go that route. ( _When isn't he beautiful to her, never that's when, he takes her breath away with every move he makes writing polishing pouring arranging blazing his mouth across her skin_.)  _But_ , she reminds herself,  _beauty does not a good parent make_. They are interrupted by Alice, who enters the room in a flustered hurry.

"Oh, Mrs. Hughes! You're here - Helen is quite sick, I'm afraid; am I meant to take over for her? I don't mind, really, but there's the linens I was doing --"

Elsie looks around the nursery, sighs, nods her head, begins to speak. "That would be best, Alice, if you could --"

" -- finish seeing to your linens; we've got everything in hand here." Carson jiggles the baby gently and gives Elsie a defiant stare. "There's no need to take Alice away from essential duties when I don't have anything to do except book work, and that can wait until later."

 _Oh, for Christ's sake. He's actually going to take over for the nanny._  She knows his fondness for small children, his soft spot, but this is absurd. What's he going to do with the girl? Give her a polishing cloth and set her to in the silver vault? She starts to argue and he is turning away, taking the baby to her little pile of toys there on the rug, her little tumbled over mass of building bricks. Elsie stares at him, then looks at Alice, who is completely confused at the situation and awaiting orders from the housekeeper.

"Go on, then, Alice, see to the linens. Mr. Carson says he'll take care of the situation. Put Helen to bed with a headache powder and a cold cloth." The maid curtsies and exits the room with no small haste.

"You are utterly ridiculous. Do you realize that? Alice could have been spared and need I remind you that she's forty years younger than you? She's a sight more comfortable bending over to pick up a baby than you are." She watches him there with Sybil, crouched down next to her, showing her how the building bricks stack, and her heart softens. Not so much because of his actions with the baby, but because there are hidden depths of tenderness and compassion in him that so few people get to see. She looks at her hands. Who would know that better than herself? His soft forgiveness of her trespass against his privacy, his loving kiss on the train platform. Nor has he held it against her, brought it up as a weapon to use in any other disagreements. That is a hard thing to do, she knows, for she is guilty of it herself very often. Elsie had apologized to him, over and over, during their small dinner at the station pub and he had told her to stop, to accept his forgiveness, to move forward. Had explained to her that he simply wanted to be asked if there were things she wanted, needed to know. She smiles at his reply.

"I am hardly ridiculous for caring for a child when her nanny has taken ill, Mrs. Hughes. I can think of many ridiculous things I may be, but this is not one of them." He glances up from the small play. "And what do you have on for the evening? Surely you've finished your inspection for the night." She starts to speak, to tell him that indeed she has not finished, that there are still six rooms waiting for her attention, but he interrupts her gently. "Stay. The rooms are always immaculate and if something is amiss no one would notice it but you. Stay, you can entertain me while I look after this one until her father comes in."

She'll stay then, of course she will, because she can refuse him nothing when that huge rumbling baritone softens for her, when the set of his jaw relaxes, when he smiles and the heavy brows go up and the fine skin wrinkles around his eyes. She'll stay. ( _She fears that power he has over her, that seemingly effortless ability he has to make her do things she probably should not do, to make her want to do them; they are always soft things, romantic things like sleeping in the same bed or sitting on his lap or letting him kiss her in a public place, but is that maybe how it started for her parents, did her mother have this weakness for a man only to watch it warp into the horrifying dependency that would come later, the dependency that would tell her she had to accept his hands and fists and insults the same way she'd taken his caresses, his embraces, his kisses_.) Elsie makes an exasperated noise, throws up her hands in surrender.

"All right! All right, have it your way. She's had her dinner, surely, so she should just need a bath and then we can put her down for the evening. Mr. Branson can see to anything else when he comes in." She begins gathering the supplies the child will need, the little basket of wash things from the cupboard, warm towels from beneath the changing table.

"I -- but that means I should -- I certainly can't be present when --" She looks over her shoulder; he's still crouched there next to the baby but his face is now all consternation, all frown of disapproval. He stands then, straightens his livery. "That's hardly fair, I said I would watch her and now you have to --"  _What is he gibbering on about?_ It dawns on her then what has caused his upset and she laughs, a peal of laughter that elicits a gurgling smile from the baby.

"She's not even a year old, Mr. Carson. I think the scandal will be minimal if you assist with her bath. For goodness sakes, my father used to wash Glenna and I in the loch when my mother was too busy to see to it." Her mouth curves into a pretty half-moon and she dumps the stack of bath supplies in his arms. "Hold these while I find her little basin." She's not positive where Helen keeps all of the nursery things, but it shouldn't be too difficult to guess where a baby's bathing tub would be kept. Elsie kneels, opens the bottom doors of the big, gaily decorated breakfront, roots around behind baskets of clothes. From behind her, Carson makes a small noise of appreciation. "What are you humming about?"

"The lovely view, Mrs. Hughes, nothing more. Do take your time finding the tub." She smiles, grins, intentionally takes longer than she need to grasp the basin, to free it from behind the baskets, makes sure to rock her hips unnecessarily.

"There'll be none of that, Mr. Carson. Didn't you just point out that we're in the presence of a child, and a lady at that?" She stands and gives him a prim look, dusts off her skirt, places the tub on the table. There's water enough in the fireplace kettle, she assumes, to bathe one small girl, so she rolls up the snug sleeves of her dress and gets to work preparing it. When the water is cooling and she has the soap and towels and facecloth laid out, she unceremoniously whisks Sybil up onto a nearby chair that she has lined with more towels. The little shift comes off, the tiny bloomers. Her diaper is checked and is still clean, which is a blessing, Elsie thinks. Not that she minds, not particularly, but still, the less of that work the better. When the baby is naked ( _a charming baby, really, she fusses little and she is now happily tugging at the keys on Elsie's waist, fascinated with their soft chime, their metallic song_ ), Elsie sits her gently in the tub of warm water and methodically begins scrubbing.

"You! I'm not meant to be doing this alone. Come hold her so I can wash her hair, for goodness sake." Carson looks lost for a moment, but gamely removes his jacket, rolls up his own pristine sleeves. Carefully, so carefully, he cradles the baby's shoulders and back in his hands, diligent not to let the soapy skin get the better of him. Self-consciously, she becomes aware of him staring, watching her, and Elsie glances up from her work to catch his eye and her voice is tender, despite the practical motions of her hands. "What is it, then?" She's rinsing the soap from the pretty flaxen hair, careful to wipe her little eyes, and he's holding the towel out now, catching her up in a warm, well-wrapped embrace and rubbing her briskly, making sure she doesn't catch a chill while Elsie sorts her little bedclothes. Together they manage to get wiggling legs and waving hands into the various sleeves and legs of things and tuck her into her crib, pushing the quilts down firmly around her. He finally answers.

"Nothing, nothing. Just lost in thought, I suppose. Thank you for doing that, I wouldn't have known how. And -- for staying. With us. For the company." There's something turning in his eyes, she can see it, sense it, but she'll not press it at this moment. She's learning to let some things lie herself, to let him have time to think before forcing him to speak. She does away with the dirty linens, pushes them into the hamper. She'll send up a maid for the bathwater and the rest of it later; for now, Sybil is drifting off to sleep in the dim, warm room and that's how she prefers it to stay. Her chores done, she watches him put his jacket back on as she rolls her sleeves down, smooths them out. Now is good a time as any to take a minute for themselves, so she steps to him, places her hand flat against his chest, directly over his heart. Feels for the steady beating, the reassuring drum that she lives for these days, and tilts her head back. She's not disappointed ( _no, never that_ ), he leans to kiss her, to press his lips against her cheeks, her eyelids, her mouth.

"Be with me tonight."

Startled, she pulls back, searches his face. He asks, always, leaves it expressly to her to decide when and where they have their nights together, but his voice is different now. It's implacable, ordering, brooking no defiance and she's surprised, doesn't quite know what is driving this. Not the simple desire to lay with her, surely, she's never inspired that sort of thing in any man, much less this one. While she is ( _almost_ ) sure of his love, his desire, he does not have this wildness inside him that she does, this ferocious burning, but his jaw is tight and his eyes are dark and so all she can do is nod, agree, tells him she will come to his bedroom tonight after the house is quiet. That is not solving the issue at hand, however.

"Go sit down and have some tea, Mr. Carson; I'll stay with her until Mr. Branson comes in; he shouldn't be long now. Go on." With a last, lingering look at the cherub sleeping quietly in her bed, he agrees and leaves the nursery, careful to make as little noise as possible. Elsie watches him go and then folds herself into the armchair, watches the girl sleeping, wonders about him. Wonders how much he regrets not having his own brood, not having a son to carry on his name, not having little girls with little fingers he could be wrapped around. Service is a respectable place in the world for working class people like themselves, but it is often a lonely one ( _cold, unforgiving, solitary, without trust or warmth or love_ ) and she had known that when she started. He had, as well, he had to know better than anyone. It is the price they pay for climbing the ladder, the toll for moving among these fine things and these supposedly fine people. He has asked her recently if she really hates them so much, them upstairs, and it's something she thinks on now. She doesn't hate them, not all of them, not even most of them. Cora and Robert are decent people, kind, good employers, she cannot complain with her treatment over the years in this house. The dowager is an old bitch, but Elsie supposes she has earned it, has earned the right to be difficult and demanding after all this time. She knows, she does, that life upstairs brings its own set of complications and troubles; she's not so naive as to believe they lead a completely charmed existence. It's just that, as she has told Mr. Carson time and time again, so much of their trouble is so often their own doing. Like his beloved Mary. That girl gets herself into her own scrapes, causes her own heartaches, and then Elsie is expected to have some sort of sympathy for her. Elsie thinks that Mary is like Carson in many ways, could almost be a child of his; determined to have her way, determined that others will bend to her will even when everything is set against it. ( _Mary is also angry, strong, filled with fight and bite and scratch, and Elsie has yet to admit to herself that Mary could be her daughter as well as his, she has not realized this yet_ ,  _has not realized that Mary actually resembles a blend of her and him more than one of her actual parents_.)

She sits there in the dark, watching Sybil, and she waits. This is a house that knows waiting, that knows long days and months and years of waiting for the right time the right person the right place, and if she's honest she's tired of waiting. Tired of being frightened that something will happen to end them, that someone will find out and use their love against one or both of them. She's tired. They have waited so long, even before they  _knew_ they were waiting, even before they knew that this love lay warm and coiled like a tiger in the trees, and something has to give. Everything is cracking open around them, inside them and around them, within them and between them, and they are both waiting with held breath to see what will be left when the dust settles, when the smoke clears. She has never wanted marriage and isn't sure if she wants it now, but she knows that she wants something. He has made her greedy in her body, in her heart, and every night they spend like this is like a drop of water to a woman covered in sand ( _enough to eat away at the shell of emptiness, of pain, but not enough to free her, it only keeps her scratching, clawing day by day_ ,  _waiting for the river, the tide, the rain to wash her clean_ ). She'll go to him tonight, then, and make love to him, and hold him in her arms where he loves to be ( _has told her that he craves it at night, that he can't sleep sometimes for want of nestling his big face there between her breasts_ ), and they will decide, or try to. Try to find some compromise, some solution, some endgame to all of this heated yearning and hidden love. Try to figure out how they can make a promise for life, seal a bond until death, present it to the world and defy them all to protest. She doesn't care anymore, really, what the outcome is. They can both work elsewhere if need be, though she doubts it would come to that, and it amazes her how she has changed so much over the course of the years. Of how he has changed her ( _how she has changed him_ ).

Elsie waits then, in her demure black gown, with her ramrod posture, with her beautiful, ageless eyes fixed on the tiny life ( _a tiny life that will serve as a clock a calendar a sundial as her mother did before her_ ) in front of her, and his words come back to her after all this time, after all these strange, incredible years.

_What would life be if we didn't allow it to change us?_


	38. Perception

It's late when she finally unlocks his door and he can take her in his arms, hold her warmth against his body. Being with her today, with her and Sybil, has upset him, shaken him in some way he can't define. A sadness has bloomed in his chest and he's been trying to work it out, to trace it back to its origins and keeps coming up empty-handed. For all intents and purposes, he should be happy, he should be pleased, they had time together, he had time with the child whom he is growing very fond of ( _no surprise there, when isn't he fond of one of the sparkling little girls of this house_ ), but watching her wash the baby, care for the girl in her casual, rough way ( _the way of women, he thinks, that offhand way they have with such delicate skin and tiny bones, that sureness that children won't break, that confidence with such fragile creatures that unnerves him_ ) has left him feeling bereft, sorrowful. It makes no sense ( _of course it does, it makes perfect sense, it's another piece of the puzzle, isn't it, another regret to have_ ).

Her arms tighten around him, her hands are stroking his back rhythmically through the fine linen of his shirt, and she feels so right, so lovely, and he protests when she leans back, puts space between their bodies so she can see his face. Carson tries to kiss her, tries to take her mouth but she's stopping him with sensitive fingers, trying to say something, and he doesn't want her to, not right now, not this moment, afterwards, after they have lain skin to skin, after he has lost himself in her dark magic, her strong love, then she can say whatever she wants, whatever she needs.

"We need to talk, we need to try to figure this -- "

His fingers are against her lips now, pressing gently, slipping into her hot mouth and she sighs, her eyes close, she sucks hungrily, sweetly. "Later, dear heart, we can talk later, about - about anything, everything. Just - later. Not right this moment, please." There's a certain amount of shame attached to this, he supposes, to wanting to take her so urgently he can't even let her talk, can't even hear her out, but it's not just about the sexual release he finds with her, not tonight ( _not ever_ ), tonight he desperately needs to feel the realness of her. To know that they haven't waited too late, left it too long. To be reminded that she is still here, still healthy and strong, that she isn't going to fade away in a will o' the wisp like some spirit that has simply visited a lonely man during a long, cold winter.

She tries to say sweet things to him, loving things. "You were very good with the girl today, you --" This is the last thing he wants to talk about right now, the very last, and he slips before he can catch himself, hates the broken note in his voice.

"Did you never, Elspeth, never want them, you would have had beautiful --" And then he can't, he can't hear that, can't talk about children and babies, he can't be reminded of ( _what he has missed, what he let slide by, what they might have could have_ ) anything but her right now and he kisses her, slow and hard and seeking, tries to telegraph to her what he needs tonight, why he is so desperate for this, why he demanded she be with him.

They undress each other slowly, taking the time to run hands over skin, to breathe into each other, to admire, to appreciate; she takes her hair down, he smiles at the beautiful fall of it. She is self-conscious of her age sometimes, he knows, and does his best to alleviate that by worshipping the spots where it shows; kisses the corners of her eyes, her upper arms, the backs of her thighs. While he has her there on the bed, he takes the time to rub her back, to knead the muscles, and she sighs her gratitude, arches up against his palms. It's rare that he gets to see her like this, lying down on her front, stretched out, the beautiful length of her back and legs glowing in the soft light and he thinks that she looks ethereal, both here and not here, both real and not, and he is uneasy again, unsure of her, and so he urges her over. He wants to see her face, to see her eyes.

Elsie turns over willingly ( _though his slow, deep rubbing of her back had been an unreal pleasure in itself_ ), she wants to see him, she wants to know that shadow of melancholy is gone, that the sadness turning slowly behind his eyes has disappeared. Her heart clenches a little when she sees that it hasn't, though it has receded. She pulls him down to her, opens her legs for him, guides him into her body and encourages him to thrust, to move ( _and it's so good for her, always, she's always wet enough and he's always just right inside her, she knows that will not always be the case but she is grateful for it right now_ ); her eyes close and she lets herself go into the pleasure, into the wonderful friction, the smooth mechanism of their hips coming together. Tilts her head back to see his face and that sadness is still there, even with his quiet gasps, that something is still darkening him above her and she is worried now, concerned that she isn't pleasing him, that she's not doing it right, that he's not finding what he needs in her. Elsie slides her hands over his shoulders, cups his face, forces him to meet her gaze. Their movements don't slow, don't stop, the lovely perfect rocking motions continue as she whispers.

"What is it? Talk to me, tell me."

 _She's asking you, tell her, tell her what you need, ask for what you need, she's asking._ Carson kisses her, gently, and then pulls away, sits back on the bed, gestures to her. "Come here -- can we try this?" Elsie smiles shyly, nods, lets him arrange her body the way he will and he takes her into his lap, guides her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck and ( _yes, this, oh yes, gods, this is it, this is what he needs, now, now she is real, now he can feel her, now she is all around him and solid and living and breathing_ ) they are pressed together, her head resting in the crook of his neck, and he lifts her, rejoins them and he is deep inside of her, deeper even than when she is astride him, and she is trying to help, trying to push her body but he doesn't want that. He wants to do this and he moans against her hair, whispers hoarsely between his choked sounds. "No, no, let me -- let me do it, Elspeth, let me just --" She accepts it and becomes passive in his arms, yielding, murmurs her assent and he grips her waist, lifts her slightly, drops her, repeats it, lengthens the rise and fall, varies it and he thinks he will never get enough, it will never be enough, this could never end and it will still not be enough of her softness wrapped around him, won't be enough of her strong arms and legs embracing his body, enough of her face nestled tight against his shoulder, of her small cries, her surprised relish. His heart is still hurting and he struggles to dismiss the emotion, to forget about the scene in the nursery earlier, there's no point in brooding over what might have been could have been ( _she large with his child, happy to birth his children_ ) and he tries to lose himself in her, in the heated movement of their melded bodies.

There is something so beautifully intimate about this, so wonderfully warm, and she is content to cling to him, to focus on holding tight to his body as he works, strives, gasping and sweating ( _she can't get the stimulation she needs to climax but she doesn't care about that tonight, she took her release of him over and over again the last time they were together, will again next time, for now this pleasure, this different joy is what she wants_ ), she is euphoric in his strength and his size, the utter feel of honest loving and she just wants that look of disappointment gone from his face, his eyes. It had appeared there in the baby's room and for some reason now she is thinking of children they might have made together, made just like this; she has never had the overwhelming desire for them but if they had met earlier, if they had come together in their younger years, if she and him had mated, oh, what children they would have made. It's a strange thought to be having at this very moment, perhaps, but here it is, thoughts of daughters with his height and strength, women of immense power, thoughts of sons with her high cheekbones and her capacity for work; ah, gods, any children they would have made could have conquered nations and she tightens her arms around his neck, his shoulders and ( _of course of course why was she so slow to pick this up she's usually so quick_ ) she knows now where his flicker of regret stems from, of course, she knows now what he was asking before he kissed her tonight, what that painful question would have been. The gasps are tearing his chest and he is desperate for release and isn't finding it and she has an intuition that perhaps she can help him, perhaps if she tells him what he needs, wants to hear, perhaps that will allow him to let go ( _she doesn't know if it's the truth, she's not sure, for the first time she thinks perhaps it is_ ) so she presses her mouth to his ear, puts all of her love into the few little words.

"I would have, I would have wanted them with you."

 _No, don't, don't, don't say that, I can take anything but that_ , but she had known ( _always knows_ ) what he needs and it is sweeping over him now, this tidal pull, the spreading warmth, and it is taking any control he had left with it and he tries to resist ( _gods, how he tries_ ) but she's holding him so tightly ( _inside and out_ ) and she's chanting in her low beautiful witch's cadence ( _I love you, I love you, let go, I love you_ ) and he is letting go of everything and it's all colliding and the place he had tried to bury so deep within himself is being torn open by her, by them, and he finds release not only of his climax but of this old pain, this old  _lack_ , inside him. He is sobbing, harsh, ugly, tearing cries that he muffles against her smooth shoulder, her scented neck, as his orgasm breaks it all apart and he hates himself for the tears ( _it is not manly, crying is a woman's outlet, but again the shame is fleeting, detached, because there is no judgment in the way she caresses him, kisses the side of his face, whispers tender words of comfort_ ). He holds her hips down, pushes himself inside her as far as she can take him, and his body stiffens until he feels it will break, snap, shatter into shards and pieces but she is there to keep him whole, to keep him safe, and though they cannot go back, can't do it over, she's here now and he thinks it will be enough, can be enough, they can work through anything if she'll only keep holding him together.

As she is held there in his arms, fiercely embracing him with her limbs ( _she is growing tired, cramped from the strain of holding so tight, being spread so wide, but she would no sooner move from this place than die_ ), a new clarity settles over her mind, her soul. It doesn't matter, it doesn't matter who they were before or what they would have done or what was right ten years ago, twenty, thirty. It matters what is right now, what will make them safe, what will keep them bound together in this slowly waning time of their life. He is sixty-five, almost, and she gaining on sixty with every day; there is not much time left, no, he will live to see seventy, perhaps seventy-five, they most likely have all of ten years left together, fifteen if they are lucky. That is no amount of time at all, and to waste another moment of it on  _what ifs_ and  _buts_ and  _maybes_ is a sacrilege of the worst kind, tantamount to blasphemy. The time for fears and doubts and recriminations is past, and it is time now for her to get her priorities straight, to stop living for another woman's house and put some stock into her own little plot of land. No children, no, but children are not the only thing that makes a family, a unit, a circle, no; those are also made with trust and faith and something else she cannot name, cannot think of the word, can't put her finger on it. He is kissing her face now, his tears have slowed, stopped; the dampness of them shines on her cheeks where he has rubbed his stubbled jaw against her smooth one, and there is no question left, not for her, not anymore. If he will, then so will she.

_She will._

_She does._

_In her heart, she already has._


	39. Penultimate

They stand, side by side, watching the fire crackle, the small embers popping and hissing. There's a space between them, a painful space that has to be there, they have to think now, to make this decision. This has been going on for months, for an age it seems, this affair, and they both admit now that it's no way to carry on. Had tried to fool themselves into thinking it was enough, that they could somehow live in the between spaces of the house ( _in the rafters the walls the keyholes the wine bottles_ ), that they could restrain all they are and all they feel into a tidy package to retrieve and store at will.

They cannot.

Somewhere along the way they both lost the control that has dictated both of their lives and now love and want and need are no longer excuses to shy away from what must be done, from what has to happen, no matter the pain or loss or cold that may come. If she would admit it ( _which she has_ ), if he will ( _which he did from the beginning_ ), they both knew from the start that there was only one ending for this, for them.

His hand flexes, twitches, reaches across the gap to find her small, cold fingers, enclose them. She's spoken little since she invited him in, since she told him through tears and bitten lips and shaking hands that this has to stop, that they have to see sense and do what needs done. He has said nothing, only held her against his chest, wept silently into the warm shining hair that he loves so much.

It has haunted his dreams for years, this, but somehow he never thought it would come down to it, never thought it would actually come to pass.

She twines her fingers around his, mostly to prevent her from throwing herself at him, from wrapping that big body in her arms, swearing she will never, never let him go, never leave him, never. Now is not the time for such things, now is exactly the wrong time. Now is the time for space.

For clarity.

For doing what is right even if it is hard.

 _Doing what is right is always the hard thing_ , she thinks,  _always_.

She isn't half wrong, for what they are doing, what they are going to do, is going to hurt, there's no mistaking that, no hiding from that fact. You didn't live sixty, sixty-five years on this earth and not know when something is going to hurt. You simply learn to stand up, to take the blow, to see if your knees buckle under the fist; if they don't, you keep going. If they do, you keep going anyway.

Elsie exhales, a long, shaking breath, tightens her grip on his hand. She wonders if she will stay on here at Downton, if she can stay on; wonders if she should not quietly look at advertisements first thing tomorrow. Even if she cannot be a housekeeper, she can be something else. She can learn to adjust to a new job, something in a shop like Glenna's, perhaps. Perhaps she could go work with Glenna, even, depending. There's no telling. She looks over at him. It's him she worries about. She does not want him to leave Downton; it is his home in a way it has never been her home, he loves it in a way she never has. He considers these people his family. Besides, she is the younger. If they find that staying is simply too hard, if one of them has to go so the other can continue on, then she's the one for it. If one of them has to leave, let it be her. She will take that bullet for him. Gladly. It's the least she can do.

He rubs his thumb across the soft skin on the back of her hand, the tender, thin, sensitive skin that he so loves to kiss, that she presses to his mouth eagerly when he does so. He knows what she's thinking, of course he does, it's the foremost thought in both of their minds, and he knows that she will try to leave. If it turns out to be impossible, if they can't just go on like they were before all of this, one of them will have to go so the other will not suffer. He knows she will want to leave, will want to lay down the years and decades of her life that she spent training, learning, working, slaving, waiting patiently for a woman before her to die so she could rise to her place. She has paid so many dues and yet he knows she is thinking she will throw it all away if it means letting him stay on. And it's for that reason he has to be the one, if his hand is forced, if he has to choose between her position and his. Yet it leaves him in a quandary because he knows her so well now. She would slip away in the middle of the night, leave a note, forego even her sterling reference, if it meant saving his job, his career, his place at Downton.

Maybe it won't come to that. Maybe they can go on. Maybe they can go forward with the work and the talk and the tea and the wine and the toast. He thinks maybe they can.

But maybe not.

He speaks, finally, and his voice is low, hoarse. "I should go." He should, he should go now, they've decided and he has no place in her rooms at this moment, it has always been stolen but now it is utterly inappropriate, too close, too intimate. Besides, they both need to sleep. They both need to sleep and wake up in the morning and see their decision in the cold light of day. The night is so full of warmth and touch and feeling and longing and sometimes anger and bitterness and regret. The morning will shine its light on their choice and then they will know how life will be after this is done.

"You should, you should sleep." Her voice is mechanical, dry, and she gives him a pained smile when he kisses her hand and gently places it by her side. He turns to leave and her heart is tearing, she wants to hold him, she wants him to hold her, she wants ( _his touch his embrace his kiss him inside her_ ) him to stay, she  _wants_.

"Tomorrow then, Mrs. Hughes."

Another pain. Mrs. Hughes now, not Elspeth, but that's right, that's correct. It's Mrs. Hughes she is at this moment and has been for so many years, so that's correct. She cannot fault him.

"I'll see you in the morning, Mr. Carson."

He leaves, but he lingers there in front of her door, his head resting against the wood, his hand still on the doorknob. She has closed it behind him and if only he could see, if only nerve endings would transmit through walls, he would feel her hands pressed to the other side, her smooth cheek. They stand this way, together but separated, with this barrier between them, for a long time. They love each other so much, these two once-frozen people; she knows how to comfort him when no one else can get within spitting distance, he knows how to make her laugh when she's filled with indignant rage. She knows his body, its weaknesses, its strengths, knows how to rub his shoulders, push her knuckles into his back to relieve the huge knotted muscles that pull and strain there. He knows how to press his fingers firmly into her temples to offer her respite from the ripping pain that sometimes threatens to tear her skull apart. His hands have cupped her breasts, stroked her sex; she has run her lips over his thighs, traced his nipples with her tongue. There is so little they don't know about each other anymore, but there is still so much to discover, and they both curse time and wasted chances and everything that has been between them for so long. But truly, honestly, they bless. They bless everything the other has brought, every smile, every laugh, every moan of pleasure, and every pain, every betrayal, every swift cut of the heart that love inflicts.

Morning will come without fail and with it they will have to live with this choice, but for now, for this minute, they stand divided by a hard oak door, and through the grief of change, they rejoice, they give praise. They bless.


	40. Pledge

It's a cold, bright morning, freezing cold, and she thinks it appropriate. She would not have wanted this day to be warm or covered with clouds, she would not have wanted anything to blunt these feelings, these thoughts, these actions they have taken. Elsie leans against the chilly brick wall and closes her eyes. All she can do now is go forward, all she can do now is know that life is nothing if it does not change her ( _he said that, she thinks of it over and over again, she has thought those words all morning_ ). She wishes, ridiculously, that she had a packet of Mr. Barrow's cigarettes right now, that she had something to occupy her hands, that she could inhale all of that awful smoke and feel it crawling through her veins and sedating her. But that wouldn't be right, it wouldn't be how it needs to be.

She's dressed in her dark green suit, the one Carson had admired so much, the one he had said made her eyes look aquatic, oceanic. It was as good as anything else, really, suited her not to be dressed up in anything ridiculous, not when she's a woman of her age. Not when this is something serious, something real, something hard-fought. She rubs her hands together, examines them, and thinks that they feel strange now, new. Wonders if they always will. Perhaps not, perhaps it will all become a part of her like housekeeping was, perhaps it would become written on her bones. She thinks it will. Everything does, in the end.

He writes slowly, carefully, with his usual beautiful penmanship, and he wonders if she will regret it, if he will. They have so many regrets between them, it wouldn't surprise him, but what could they do except make a choice? Nothing can go on in a vacuum the way they had tried to make it, nothing could live in a place where air and light could only be had in measured sips. Change is painful, he knows, he has seen enough of it ( _railed against it_ ) in his lifetime, but at the end of the day all one could do is accept it and try to make the best of it.

Carson sits there at the desk and writes, and writes, and carefully blots and wipes the pen and dips it again, and he thinks that, despite it all ( _the risk the gamble the potential for loss_ ), they have done the right thing. Thinks it will be just fine, if only they remember who they are, what they are. If only they don't try to change one another too much. Besides, time itself is changing, the world is shifting around them and who can say what the years to come will bring? Things are certainly not like they were in his father's day, they aren't even the way they were in his day, they are brand new and bursting into new colors and shades and hues. He thinks of her hands, and of how beautiful they are, and how happy they have made him. He does not doubt for a minute the seriousness of what they have done, but the beauty of her cannot be denied, the joy that she has made in his black and white life cannot be overlooked. He writes.

Standing there in the bright sunlight, she opens her handbag for the hundredth time this morning, looks inside. It's there, that little beaten book that he gave her as his gift ( _his diary, his real diary, the one he has kept for years, the one she never knew about, the one that stayed in his room and was only written in when something very substantial happened_ ) and she touches it with tender fingers. He had handed it to her this morning, pressed it between her palms, wrapped her fingers around it ( _take it, I want you to have it, I don't need a book for happy occasions anymore_ ), and she had wept, had closed herself in her bedroom and cried for a long, hard few minutes, holding it to her heart. She's carried it with her this morning, thinks she will carry it with her always, even after she has read it, slowly, page by page by page. She will keep it forever.

She had given him something, as well; she had left a little box on his desk, a pretty ceramic thing that her mother had given her. It is not valuable, her mother had owned nothing of real value, but it is pretty, and when he had opened it later, when he had unlatched the clasp, he had found thirty shining hairpins, her best, the lovely silver pins with silver filigree work, and he had run a finger through them, touched them reverently, secreted the box into his inside coat pocket where it rested with a tiny warm weight against his chest. Had thought of her hair, of the beautiful long fall of it, the way it curls around her shoulders and neck and arms when she takes it down, the way it drowns his hands when he takes it down for her. The silken feel of it against his face, his shoulders, when she is on top of him. The way it always smells so clean, fresh with lemons and flowers. He had always meant to ask her why that is, what she washes it with, but somehow he had never gotten around to it.

He finishes the paperwork, very carefully dries the ink ( _carefully, so carefully, he would never let this be botched, that's the man he is, one of caring precision and keen observation_ ), and puts the pen back in the stand. He stands, looks it over, and then it's done, and there's nothing more here for him to do.

She rubs her arms for warmth, turns her face up to the sun. It's only the details that need tended now, it's all said and done, it's what she's decided to do. She won't repent of it, she won't stand here second-guessing. She has never been a woman to dither, to waffle. Elsie makes up her mind, and then goes forward ( _she had made sure of that before telling him, that's the woman she is, one of quick mind and steadfast courage_ ).

Carson leaves the office, finds his coat on the rack, winds the scarf around his neck ( _the scarf she made him, the beautiful tartan with blue shot through it, he always remembers to wear a scarf now, how can he not_ ), and steps into the cold day, and he smiles at what he sees, smiles at all of that prettiness.

She is turning then to give back her own smile ( _a deep one, a true one, a smile that lights her eyes and carves her cheeks with those twin commas_ ), and she takes his arm, pushes her fingers into the bend of his elbow. The slim gold band on her hand catches the winter light and shines quietly as they walk along through the town, as they find a place to have a suitable wedding lunch for two people who have taken the time to make a choice, a hard one, one that may not be perfect, but in the end the only one that made any living sense. There may be consequences at Downton and there might not be, but they had to do this without knowing. They had to do this knowing that they are making the choice free of that burden, that they will accept whatever comes with it, that they will face any obstacles thrown in their path and surmount them. It couldn't have been the other route, they couldn't have gone caps in hand and asked for permission, begged for a blessing, because they are not children, not teenagers, but people in the fullness of their lives, and this was their choice and their choice alone to make. If one or both of them has to leave Downton, they will go to Lytham, or St. Anne's, or somewhere else. They will work in another big house, or a shop, or a business. They will be all right.

It comes to her then, that word she had been looking for since that night ( _trust and faith and something she can't put her finger on, trust and faith and something else, what is it, what is that word_ ), it finally comes to her and she laughs ( _he looks at her then, and oh, the love in that face, the joy_ ) for what do they have if not that? They have that in spades, in cups and pounds and yards and fathoms, if the two of them are well-matched in anything it is that foolhardy quality that makes them clash, that will set his jaw with anger and fire her eyes with outrage, but in the end she thinks, just maybe, possibly, perhaps perseverance is what will see them through.


	41. Postlude

He lays watching her as she pulls the stocking over her calf, her thigh, clips it to her garter. She no longer wears the old-fashioned corsets with the biting stays and the brutal cutting laces, and he can't decide if he's shocked by that or not. Had announced on her birthday that she was treating herself by casting her corset into the rubbish bin and never buying another; that she was well old enough now not to be bothered with something that did nothing but cause her discomfort. It had surprised him, as it always surprises him ( _still, still after all these years he's known her_ ) when she can fly in the face of social rules. She had told him that the time of corsetry was over, and if the Lady of the house was done with them, she would be, as well. And, he has to admit, she had sound logic when she pointed out that the Lady didn't even do very much of anything and still hated wearing one, so why should a woman who walks all day suffer?

He likes her without it, he likes that she isn't bound and constricted and shielded from his hands, from his body when he embraces her. He likes that he now feels the ripe push of breast and hip against his chest and stomach when she holds him, even for the briefest of moments. She glances over her shoulder at him, still in bed, still wearing only his pajama pants, the bedsheet. Her lips curve in that pretty half-moon smile and she puts down her dress ( _she has also done away with underskirts, there's no need for them now that she isn't corseted, not really, he likes that, as well_ ) and comes to sit next to him.

"Are we on holiday then?"

Carson smiles at her. That's her standard question for anyone she catches mollygaggling along, dawdling when there's work to be done, but there's no imperative work this morning. Not really. The family is in the North for their holiday, except for Branson and the child, and he has explicitly stated that he won't be ringing for anything, won't be requiring valet service or breakfast in bed or any of the other thousand and one things that they generally tend to. Why not have a bit of a lie-in? How often do they get the chance? It's a new feeling for him, not to jump up and immediately begin work, but now he has something to tend to besides work. There's something worth his time other than work. His heart is gladdened by this; she is a revelation in his life.

Elsie leans against him, props her elbow on his hip, sits there quiet and pretty in her stockings and garters and chemise. They should probably go and start giving the orders of the day, but let them all lie in for a few more minutes. Nothing will be hurt either way, and it means she and him can do the same. He's beautiful lying there with his lined face and his silver hair and his huge chest covered in soft fur that she sleeps on now, every night almost, at least for a little while. Even when it's too hot or too cold or they're angry with one another, she lays her head there, her arm, her cheek; sometimes she actually crawls on top of him and rests, usually the days when something ( _or nothing_ ) will cause her to become frightened, when she'll walk as fast as she can through the house looking for him, when a sudden terror seizes her heart that something has happened to him, he's gone away ( _he was never there to begin with_ ).

 _That's new_ , she thinks, as she nestles her body tighter against him, rubs her fingers absent-mindedly over the bone of his hip, the slight dip of his waist. It's been a strange thing to discover, how frightened she is since they married, how much she worries about him. She had spent such a long time parceling out her concern and worry for other people into neat, tidy bundles that didn't cost her very much, but she can't manage to do that with him. Perhaps this is what she had feared most, the investment, the fear that comes with loving someone deeply. The knowledge that she will be torn asunder when that inevitable day comes when something does happen, when he doesn't answer her when she calls his name, when he doesn't wake up from a long night of sleep. The sure knowledge that loving him will eventually have to destroy her because loving him means losing him.

But these are no thoughts for a lazy summer morning when the bed is still cool and the sun is warm outside the window ( _bright like the day he put her ring on her hand, the ring that has become written on the bone, the way she thought it might, the ring that now is such a part of her that she feels naked, wrong when she takes it off to wash_ ). Today they will see to the usual maintenance of the house and, who knows, perhaps, if she can convince him, they'll let everyone out on a half-day. It's not simply out of kindness that she's considering it; there's simply not that much for them to do when the house is empty. It's the one brief time out of the year where they can actually take leisure, and she is actually anxious and eager to do so. Also still a new thing.

First time she's had a reason to be anxious and eager for time away from work. He has been a discovery in her life.

It has been two years since he put the ring on her hand and she had fiercely whispered  _I will_ and he had said it with softness, with his hand on her cheek, _I will_ , and things are different and things are the same.

They fight. They argue over petty disagreements. They row to bring down the rafters sometimes. She has discovered a talent for screaming, actual full-on screaming, when he gets under her skin too badly. He has cursed at her once, told her to go to their room ( _the fight had ended with her incredulous shrieking laughter at the command, at her surprised mirth, and even he had to admit it was a stupid thing to say but he had been at his rope's end and wanted her to stop shouting at him and couldn't think what else to do_ ). He thinks she can be more understanding of the family; she thinks he should see them for what they are and stop being so blind. She thinks he can be more understanding of the other servants; he thinks she is too quick to embrace any outcast that comes her way.

They don't fight. They spend hours in their room reading quietly in bed before sleep. She has taken up stitchery and hates it but is determined to master it because she admires the results so much. She grumbles, mutters under her breath at knotted thread and missed stitches while he sketches in his book of botanical drawings. Elsie had thought one day that he would be good at sketching, drawing, pen and ink things because his handwriting is so beautiful, so flawless, and so she had given him a sketchbook, a set of good pencils for their first anniversary. He has taken to it exactly as she thought he would and now spends much of his free time shading the delicate wings of a butterfly, the ruffles of a chrysanthemum, the spidering veins of a rose.

They make love. He wakes her sometimes in the night by lifting her shift, touching her gently until she gives her sleepy smiling consent, turns to him, opens for him; he takes her slowly, sweetly, with great tenderness until they both sigh and sleep again. She has grown more confident, bolder; she touches his sex more often, loves to explore his body with searching, eager fingers, loves to watch his face as she strokes him, whispers to him ( _is that good is that it like that_ ) while she gives him pleasure. After one particularly irritable, snappish day, she had dragged him off to their room and had him hard on top of the bedspread, hadn't even bothered to take off her dress, had simply lifted her skirts and went astride him and had him, had bit and scratched and slapped at him and cursed him through her moans ( _oh gods damn you, Charles Carson, damn you, you make me so damn angry, why can't you ever just -_  ) until they had both come with shaking, laughing cries. He had found it stunning, wanton, violent, and it was, he thought then and still thinks now, a satisfactory ending to a row.

They don't make love. Sometimes they press together in the early morning and kiss, slowly, without rush or expectation; they kiss and their mouths mate and he knows how she likes to be kissed now, with little soft bites, knows that she likes it when he licks at the inside of her warm, wet mouth. She knows that he loves it when she denies him, when she holds his face just an inch away from her, breathes against him, parts her lips just a bit, wets them, she knows it makes him shake when she forces him to wait, to work for it. They kiss for a long, lovely time and sleep again.

The Crawley's have been good to them, even she has to admit it ( _she is more willing to now, she is kinder about them because they mean so much to him and it costs her nothing_ ), they had been unsurprised at the news and had offered them an arrangement akin to that of Anna and John, but it had taken only a glance between them to know it was not what they wanted. Not yet. Perhaps later, perhaps when they have tested this new ground between them. It had been him who had surprised her then with his boldness, his willingness to discuss this with them ( _but they are his family, he says, the only family he had before her, and she thinks perhaps that is why he could ask_ ), had wondered if they could perhaps simply have a bedroom together, one out of the hundred that lay unused day after day after day. Cora had immediately embraced the idea; Robert had urged them again to take the cottage, saying they'd want their privacy, a place of their own, but Carson had looked at Elsie for approval and saw that the idea sat well with her, it worked.

And it has worked. It has given them their own space, their own little cocoon in the middle of what can be all of this madness; at the end of long days they retire to their room ( _she had chosen the one farthest away from everyone, farthest away from the rest of them, almost sequestered it was so far from the other occupied bedrooms_ ) and they are together and she expressly forbade the servants from ever bothering them there unless under the strictest of emergencies. She had laid down that law from day one, she wouldn't have him constantly pestered after hours with questions and demands. They have earned that right. They have earned the right to be only with each other in the evenings before bed, during the night, in the early hours of the morning. It has worked in another way, as well; they are not trapped in a cottage, beneath each other, unable to get away from the sight of one another; they are not claustrophobic and penned in to tiny rooms after living for so long in the vast echoing halls of Downton. When they argue, there is room enough ( _miles of room_ ) for them to sulk in their own corners, room enough for them to be alone when they need ( _for they do need, she needs to be alone sometimes to remember who she is, to remember that he is not leaving and they are now married and every day will be the same as the last; he needs time to himself to remember that he is a living person without her, that he will not go completely to pieces if she is not within his line of vision, that he can function even if she isn't beside him every waking moment_ ). It has worked.

They are growing older. Her stride is just a step slower, just a step, he's the only one who has noticed. She has her headaches a little more frequently now; they take more out of her. Where before she could bounce back in a few hours, it takes her a good night's sleep to recover. There are a few new lines around her eyes that he loves to touch, he still loves to handle all that softness, to trace his fingers over that satin skin. He is a bit slower to rise these days, she has seen it. He needs less sleep now but he needs his six hours without fail; without it he is almost incapacitated. His back pains him a few times a month now instead of a few times a year as before. His grip is just a touch weaker than it was, but still strong enough to wrap around her waist, to lift her when he wants, how he wants.

They sometimes feel younger. He laughs more now, isn't as serious about tiny transgressions that used to provoke his temper, he's not as hard on his footmen as he used to be. He's still as exacting, but is more likely to forgive errors without the need for a public lashing. She is more social; she is finally letting Mrs. Patmore and Anna become true girlfriends, true women friends, and it has been good for her. She had spent so long comforting everyone and having no one to comfort her; she has other women to turn to now when she needs to talk or vent or plan little surprises.

They still love their work, they are still loyal to the ambition that drove them both ceaselessly through their lives. Her keys still stream from her hip, she still hasn't given Mrs. Patmore run of the storehouse. She still checks and double-checks every room her girls work in, still checks the baseboards to see if they've been properly dusted. Still corrects her girls by having them kneel down and dust them in her presence if they haven't been done. He still counts the silver every night, polishes it lovingly. He still instructs the footmen on how to lay a perfect table, still lays a perfect table himself.

They plan now for the day when they will give it up. Neither of them are foolish enough to pretend they can go on forever. Both of them are very careful with their money, he turns his pay over to her every month and she puts it with her own in their bank account, carefully watches the total grow into the nest egg they will need to live comfortably. She is more frugal now than she was, makes her dresses last longer by altering them instead of buying a new one; drops necklines, raises hemlines, has the seamstress put new trim and embroidery on them to freshen the look. He buys second-best shaving soap these days; would rather have that extra pence or pound to put away. They have discussed what they will do when it's time to give it up, if they will stay or if they will go; he thinks she would like to go be near Glenna, he thinks he would not mind that so much. Wouldn't mind living near the sea in his last years. Wouldn't mind seeing her windblown and pretty from collecting shells, would like to see her hair streaming in the ocean wind.

Elsie smooths back his hair now and smiles at how his eyes are drooping, wanting to close, and she soothes him with gentle strokes to his jaw, firm caressing touches to his face. "Go back to sleep. We can lie in for a while. Why not? Go back to sleep, you've earned it, I'd say." He doesn't protest, just pushes down into the soft heap of pillows and sheets. She should get up, she thinks about it, looks at her dress where she left it hanging over the back of the chair. When she goes to rise, he stirs, grasps her arm tightly, pulls her down into the bed next to him.

"Stay, Elspeth, there's nothing you need to tend to, either. Sleep a few more minutes with me." Elsie doesn't argue, gives in easily, because it's just too tempting, just too lovely to stretch back out next to him, to turn so her back is against his chest, her hips pressed into the cradle of his pelvis. They sleep again. For a while. Why not?

She still reads the diary he gave her on their wedding day. Sometimes when she's low or sad for some undefinable reason, she takes it out, cuddles into their bed with a cup of tea, carefully turns the thin pages. Smiles at his descriptions of her when they come up, smiles at his loving description of Mary's wedding day, thinks that no father could have been prouder. He still has her silver hairpins, every last one, and when they go out on those rare occasions for a meal, for a picture show, he takes them out, carefully, lovingly puts them into her hair in the places she points to. When he is very anxious or very unsettled, he opens the little box, counts them until he is calm.

Elsie has taken a kinder stance on Lady Mary; she has made a point to engage the girl when she sees her about, to talk with her a little. It means so much to him and she's coming to see that Mary isn't the uppity minx, the heartless spoiled girl that she once accused her of being. She understands also that she and Mary are not so different in some ways ( _still doesn't understand that they are so very alike in most ways_ ) and thinks that perhaps Carson values the same attributes in them. He has met Glenna ( _truly met her, eaten at her table_ ) and is fond of her, was startled at the strong physical resemblance between the two women, had been fascinated to watch them interact. Has sat and read the paper and discussed the news with Glenna's man, has made the same swift exit to the local when the two women start baking and gossiping as one cohesive unit.

So things are different, and things are the same.

They are all right, very much so. They love well and sleep well and fight well and her face fits in the hollow of his neck and his hands fit around her waist and he fits inside of her and she fits all around him, and that's all either of them wanted. Not to be forced into a box that wouldn't hold them, not to watch their love die on the vine because it had been stunted and crushed in tiny airless rooms, not to wear a cloak cut from the wrong cloth. To have something of their own. Not everything, nothing grand, just something that fit.

They are more than all right. They are quite well, and everything fits, and so they sleep on. There's no reason not to.


	42. Dedication

In case it need be said, this would not exist without Julian Fellowes, Jim Carter, Phyllis Logan, and all of the brilliant, beautiful people of Downton Abbey that inspired it.

This began as a single spur-of-the-moment (very) short story and turned into a NaNoWriMo project and then into an almost 400-page novel. It was fueled on copious amounts of wine, coffee, cigarettes, and fanatical shipping of a certain housekeeper and butler.

To Maria, Vee, HuddyJoy, AnxiousRobot, onmyside, Kate, Ellie, Bilko, Sophie, NHas, Mrs. Dickens, QuietlyFlailing, MissHerby, HogwartsDuo, Alkd, Kouw, GraceBe, 18tilIdie, Latona Enelra, elementarylemon, PercySnail, Jabberwockette, Teapowder, liv3urlife95, quirkette, DanceoftheCrazed, nonnaminerva, aneviltwin, raffe, ContraryAiryFairy, Gemenied, LydiaSnape, laineybev, BlueMarkingPen, funkymole, Lauren, Keya, Kait, Amy, all of the wonderful people at Tumblr, and all of the lovely anonymous readers that gave me hundreds of reviews and tens of thousands of page views and hits: this novel is dedicated to you, with great thanks and love.


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